Unbreakable
by Michelle My Belle
Summary: AU: Lizzie meets Red somewhat accidentally while she is finishing college. She finds that Red holds the keys to her past, possibly her future. She embarks on a journey of discovery that is sure to test her unflinching, unbreakable spirit.
1. Disclosure

A/N: Trying my hand at a multi-chapter work - thanks for indulging me! Backstory, Tom-less, eventual Lizzington. I do not own these characters.

_**Chapter 1: Disclosure**_

Spring afternoons in Waverly, Nebraska were full and fair. Young lovers in rolled pant legs waded in Stevens Creek, its brisk and clear flow a refreshing and fun afternoon date. Early plantings had begun to spring up from the earth showering the countryside with baby green sprouts. New life was all around. Elizabeth Scott was just a few weeks from celebrating her eighteenth birthday, usually an exciting time for any young woman. But coming of age held no specific excitement or joy for Elizabeth. To her, it heralded the beginning of the end. The end of being so close to the man who wholly loved her and considered it the highest calling he could have to be her protector.

The tiny town she lived in with her father was like many other small mid-western farming communities. Crime was nearly non-existent and it was the kind of place where everyone knew each other's name and business. Except hers. The little girl who came to live with Sam fourteen years ago was shrouded in secrecy. Little was known about her real parents or why Sam was specifically chosen to look after her. He liked it that way. The less information that got around about his princess, the better. For nearly a decade and a half, he shored up defenses around her, effectively shielding her and her past from anyone that got close. Even Elizabeth, herself, knew not the truth of her origins. Sam preferred to be her white knight, nobly adopting her, making her his own and making the best life he could as a single dad could. It was a good life. Though they had few friends and a modest lifestyle, they were content with each other.

Theirs was a simple comfort. At first, her adjustment to living with him was tenuous, but through time and healing she began to trust him and develop a real love for him. In the beginning, it was in the way he would quiet her after a nightmare or hold her when she was sick, but it gradually turned into a loving respect for who he was, his struggle as a single dad and the way he always put her first, sacrificing so she had everything she could want or need. He was her friend. Her only family.

Sam was everything to her and leaving him was going to break her.

By the end of the summer, the tension in the Scott house was palpable and neither cared to admit what was bubbling just under the surface. Always the stoic, Liz pushed down her discomfort of the impending change to come. It came easily, a trait she assumed from her adoptive father. But refusing to address things was only stalling the inevitable. The night before she left for Columbia University, she knew, was her last chance.

"Dad, we need to talk. Before I leave for New York, I desperately need some answers. I deserve answers," she began to pace in front of him, launching into her opening arguments and readying herself for his pushback. "I've lived basically my whole life not knowing the truth about my parents and instead believing what I've been told is a lie! I just don't know how I can leave with this still hanging over me."

"Butterball, you have a valid argument and I have always known on some level that this day would come. You're a very intelligent young woman and keeping the truth from you has been a real challenge. But it's been one I have gladly taken on to keep you safe," he admitted.

"Please don't take this the wrong way. I appreciate all that you've done to protect me from this. But a criminal profiler digs into the psyche of a person to determine why they make the choices they make and their past has an impact on those choices. I don't know how I can effectively pursue this career with no shred of knowledge about my own past!" she said, her tone and volume beginning to rise. He held his hand out to her, conveying seriousness, stalling. Taking his hand in hers, she sank down next to him. The conflicting voices were warring within him. Tell her. Don't tell her. She wouldn't relent.

Sam sat back for a moment, rubbing his forehead and thinking furiously about what he could say to appease her. Could he just tell a half-truth? Whatever he did divulge, she will likely run right at it, using whatever resources she could employ at the university to research and hunt. She was an adult now, capable of making her own decisions and accepting responsibility for them. He could only hope that she would treat his revelation with caution.

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, buying just a few more seconds of the happy bubble he had painstakingly spent years creating for her. "Elizabeth, you know that I adopted you because your parents died when you were four. You had no other relatives to care for you. What you don't know is that only your mother passed away the night of the fire." There was no turning back now. "While intentionally set to kill your father, he escaped, leaving your mother behind to perish in the flames. Your father was presumed dead, the official report even confirmed it. In reality, he escaped that night and you were brought to me before he could find out that you made it out of the fire. I haven't thought much about it, but he could still be alive," he confessed, feeling one weight lifted only to be replaced by an altogether different substantially heavy dread.

She could only stare blankly back at him and attempt to process the enormity of his disclosure. Why would someone intentionally try to kill her father? Could he really be alive after all the years that have passed? Why go through all the trouble to keep this from her? She had thousands of questions, but one that couldn't wait any longer.

"What is my biological father's name?" she asked.

He hesitated, formulating his response. "Sweetheart, it wasn't safe for you to know then. I can only assume the same is true now. When you were brought to me, that was the most important instruction I was given," he explained.

Refusing to admit defeat, she countered, "Then at least tell me who brought me to you for safekeeping? You gotta give me something."

"It's not as easy as simply giving you a name. Years before you were brought to me, I was in the Navy and quickly became good friends with a fellow Ensign who would eventually become my Lieutenant Commander. His rise in the Navy was meteoric, his strength and intelligence simply unmatched. But I think it was also, in part, due to his charisma and likeability. He had a way with people, drawing them in, making them feel known. We hit it off right away," he began to trail off, clearly lost in his own memories of this man.

"Well anyway, he was chosen for a special operations unit, I wasn't, and we lost touch." Her heart fell at Sam's sad and distant expression. His pain at losing this friend was evident and was a side of him she had rarely seen. "He was assigned to a deep cover op for a couple of years and in that time, I got a few letters, just enough to let me know he was still alive but couldn't give much away about his position," he rose and crossed to a bookshelf. Pulling out a few dusty encyclopedia volumes, he reached with the other hand to the back of the shelves and retrieved a partially rusted box. Replacing the books, he returned and sat down right next to his daughter, his hands trembling. Fumbling with the lid, he gently opened the box revealing a worn leather diary inside with frayed twine holding it closed.

Sam carefully fingered the twine, slowly leafing through the delicate pages. She stared down at the hidden treasure that lay in his hands in awe. She had never seen this box or its contents. What else had lay seemingly in plain sight but beyond her understanding? She was afraid to follow that line of thinking any further, for now.

He stopped when he reached a worn photo of himself and another distinguished, handsome man, both in their dress blues. An elegant party. Their smiles held the warmth and excitement of youth, of lives yet unmarred by time and torment. She reached out to lay her hand over his, bringing him back to the moment.

"This was the last night I saw him before he showed up here with you," he recalled, whisper-like, as if just to remind himself.

"This…is him?" looking at Sam quizzically. She couldn't believe she was finally getting a glimpse into truth about her past. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but she couldn't have imagined this, the intensity of emotions tightening in her chest. There was something entrancing about his smile and his eyes, as if they were staring right into her. Spellbound and stone-still, she continued to stare in the angelic eyes of her rescuer.

"Elizabeth, this is my best friend, Lt. Commander Raymond Reddington. I owe him my life. And yours."


	2. Chance Encounter

He lurked in the shadows. Always in the shadows. Lying in wait, for her. For years. He admired her from afar, keeping tabs through associates, occasionally including Sam. Through intricately established and hidden in plain sight employees, there was always someone close, blending in, listening in, reporting back to Reddington. Elizabeth was none the wiser.

Her small town upbringing hadn't prepared her for city living. Sam called every Sunday afternoon to hear about her week. Elizabeth would regale him with stories about her seminars, the museum she'd just visited or a contemporary restaurant she had visited recently with friends. It was a life he couldn't completely fathom. Aside from his time in the Navy, he had always been a country boy. During her third and fourth years at Columbia, she waited tables part time at a diner near Riverside Park. He was concerned for her safety, a beautiful young woman shouldn't walk alone after dark, he'd say. She scoffed at his concern but promised to get someone to walk her home from work if she could. Sam would hear about a mugging or burglary near the park on the news and call her frantically. She had suggested that he not to watch the news.

The intrusive alarm clock rang Monday morning after a full weekend of work and study. It became her routine to snooze a few times and opt for casual dress and a pony tail in lieu of waking early and putting thought into her wardrobe. Who did she have to impress? It was that thought that allowed her to justify becoming a little more lax in the way she prepared for the day, especially as a senior, her graduation day drawing ever near. Running particularly late one fall day caused her to break into a light sprint on her way to class. Elizabeth had always been a runner, but having the university fitness center so close had given her more time to develop her love of the sport. Gym. Work. Study. She knew her life wasn't incredibly interesting but it was also uncomplicated. Uncomplicated was working just fine.

Still running, she rounded the corner toward the building her Cognitive Behavior seminar was in when she smacked into someone, and losing her balance, fell. It happened so fast she hadn't even seen who it was, until he knelt down to offer her his hand. Shaking the shock off, she finally looked up into a pair of stormy sea green eyes fixed intently on hers. Her stomach flipped, reminding her that she was not dreaming and actually was still on the ground in a hallway, books strewn about. She looked around and worked fast to find words, movements, anything really so as not appear stunned.

"I'm sorry. I'm so late," she managed, trailing off as their eyes met again.

"No apology is necessary. It appears I in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps the right place at the right time?" he quipped, pushing his offered hand a little closer until she finally slipped her petite hand into his. He was strong, warm and mysterious. He stood, taking her hand with him and steadying her as she rose.

"I still can't believe I ran into you. I actually don't think I saw you coming," she admitted.

"I generally try to blend in," he joked. Who was he kidding? Nobody wore tailored three-piece suits anymore. Well, none of her professors did and that was the extent of her experience with adult men outside of Nebraska. He had a distinguished look about him, like wisdom and money. He certainly didn't blend in looking the way he did. She was suddenly aware of her state of dress and hair. Self-consciousness crept its way up her neck and onto her cheeks as she felt the intensity of his stare, strangely odd, oddly familiar.

She glanced down at the books once more, avoiding the awkwardness of her clear lack of any intelligible words. He stooped down to retrieve her belongings from the floor and handing them to her, their fingers connected briefly. She began to part her lips to express her appreciation but the electricity from his touch put her on pause once more. He had to break the silence, unwilling for this unexpected meeting to turn into something more official. Raymond Reddington was, if nothing else, a calculating planner. This accidental meeting was not part of his plans where she was concerned.

"Well, Elizabeth, it was a pleasure but I must be going and I imagine you have a class to be in?"

"Yes, I, wait, we didn't even exchange names," she said, her implied question hanging between them.

"Your student I.D.," he said motioning to her name and picture on a lanyard. He tipped his head down as if to bow to her, holding his fedora. "Until we meet again," he offered in place of a good-bye and turned on his heel to leave before she could protest. She eyed him until he disappeared from sight.

It's an interesting phenomenon that an hour can feel excruciatingly like days.

Elizabeth was the first to exit the class once it was over. Being the last in had an advantage on this occasion. Her eyes swept the halls, frantically in search of him. She was sure she had never seen him on campus before but she was equally as sure that she wanted to see him again. Fast. Defeated, she returned to her apartment for plan B. She quickly flipped open her laptop and went to the faculty section of the school's website, skimming over every male professor, adjunct or otherwise, looking for him. It was no use. None of them were as attractive or well dressed and none of them had eyes like his. Closing her own eyes, she felt her way back to the moment in the hallway and the embers blazing in his stare. A fire altogether separate ignited low in her belly. She swore she had never been looked at like that. A stranger had captured her in mere moments and left her wanting more. The two guys she had seen casually in the last few years were fairly immature when compared to her and if honest, were only in it with her for one thing. She gave it up a few times, longing to somehow feel a connection, feel pretty, valued, important – feel anything, but she lost interest in them once she caught on. Being single was preferable to her over being someone's conquest. The next time she did it, it would be for the long play.

Seeing him again was beginning to consume her mind and body. Sleep would evade her over the next few days. Food was only a necessity, not a desire. Never had she felt so hell-bent on anything. She took long walks in the evenings off campus, stopping in a cigar bar or two that catered to the wealthier, more discerning gentleman, just hoping to run into him again. She was desperate for their meet-cute, part two, with way more staring into each other's eyes and a lot less smacking into each other with unintended force. At least if anything ever came of it, they'd have an interesting story to tell of how they met. She'd leave out the part where she hunted him down like a lost puppy.

Gradually, discouragement, along with the piercing chill of winter set into her bones. It had been two months since the day she met him: the unnamed mystery man that knew her name, the man who had comfortably taken up residence in her dreams.

It was a bitter winter's day in January when she stopped by the campus post office before heading home. She grabbed her stack of mail and customarily thumbed through the junk mail and magazines without interest. The last piece was unique, ivory linen stock with her name inscribed in crimson. She fumbled to get it open, her breath catching in her throat in anticipation. Inside the envelope was a matching card with the following in the same crimson:

_Ready to meet again? I'll be waiting, tomorrow at 8pm. The Lucerne, 79__th__ &amp; Amsterdam._


	3. Prelude

She read over the crimson handwriting several times:_ I'll be waiting, tomorrow…_

Tomorrow.

It had to be him. Every moment of their encounter echoed over and over in her mind. 'Until we meet again.' The warmth she felt at his touch, the fire in his gaze. His desire to see her again. She had twenty-four more agonizing hours to mull this over. And decide what to wear.

It had been months since she had been on a date. Whether that is what this was or not, she still felt those flutters in her stomach at the thought of all the firsts. First time a man put his hand at the small of her back. First getting to know you, getting to know all about you conversations. First kiss. First…well. She was quickly getting far ahead of herself. The intrigue of this mysterious man and their next meeting was the most thrilling thing to happen to her in a long time. Perhaps ever.

Elizabeth had never been to The Lucerne. The hotel was a few blocks from her apartment but in the world of college-aged guys she had gone out with, it might as well have been a world away. Dating in college seemed to involve a fair amount of niche coffee shops or hole in the wall Italian restaurants. She couldn't really blame the budget of a college student. That struggle was all too familiar, save for her ability to have the kind of apartment that she did. The kind that fellow students were jealous of. She lived in an up and coming and, most importantly to Sam, safer part of town. Sam somehow was able to secure this place for her and take care of her rent. She took care of the rest with her part-time income. Funny, how she always felt her upbringing was modest and now she had a somewhat swank apartment in a salty town on a Navy pension. He told her not to ask questions.

Standing in front of her closet, every article of clothing she owned was suddenly deemed unworthy. She scrutinized several types of outfits: a blouse and dark jeans, a blazer and slacks but landed on a black skirt, heeled boots and a valentine red sweater. A subconscious homage to the red ink of his note to her. Maybe there was something significant about his choice to use it, her choice to wear it.

Opening her jewelry box, she selected a few understated pieces. Pearl earrings, for class. A sterling silver ring, for her right hand. Everything was set. It was one in the morning.

It was a fitful night of off-and-on sleep and ceiling staring. She saw the dawn crack the horizon and groaned at her exhaustion, though fighting off this day would be well worth it come eight o'clock tonight. She was hopeful.

The passing of hours was languid, the buildup to eight o'clock like torturous foreplay. She dressed and prepared her hair and makeup thoughtfully, remembering how she looked at their first meeting and wanting to blow that memory of his out of the water. Before heading out the door, she dabbed on her favorite perfume, pulled on her wool coat and leather gloves, and clipped out of her building to the street to get a taxi. She fidgeted in the back seat, thrilled, but apprehensive of what lay ahead of her. What were his intentions for the evening? What were hers?

The white gloved doorman approached the taxi, opening her door and offering a hand to help her out. She already felt like a princess. On shaky legs and heels, she stepped into the grand entrance of the glimmering hotel lobby. She scanned around, knowing he would stand out. Her eyes stopped at the bar when she locked eyes with him. The corners of her lips turned up immediately, without warning. He was already working his way into her heart.

He stood immediately and made his way toward her. He looked every bit as good as he did upon their first meeting, a charcoal three-piece suit and crimson patterned tie his choice this evening. Her decision to wear red did not go unnoticed as he swept his eyes over her and smiled back at her, eyes bright. The chasm between them was coming to a close.

He was the first to speak. It would have been so regardless. She was admittedly bad at this and he just stunned her into silence with his appearance alone. It wasn't just the threads, but the aura of a man dripping with confidence and control.

"I'm delighted you decided to come," he said, offering his right hand to her. She slid her shaking fingers into his and he closed over them with his left hand, warming and calming her. The affect the contact was having was not lost on her. She looked down at their hands and fought to stay focused. Following her eyes and concerned it was too much, too fast, he carefully dropped their hands.

"I'm flattered you decided you wanted more, considering how I introduced myself to you on our first meeting," she admitted, chuckling nervously. With her hands available again, the fidgeting came back. Sensing her unease, he motioned toward the bar.

"Shall we?"

She nodded in agreement. A drink would certainly help this situation. At least for her. He was so cool and collected. She concluded that likely came with age. Not that she was trying to gage, but it was clear he had some years on her. He placed his hand in the curve of her back and led her to the bar. Even through her coat, she felt a shiver run through her at the gesture. It wasn't so much about being touched. It was about being led.

He pulled out a chair for her at a table for two tucked into a corner of the bar, quiet and darker. He chose the seat facing the exit, she assumed so she would have nothing else to look at but him. She didn't mind. They were approached by a waiter and her date motioned for her to order first.

She was afraid to open her mouth for fear she would stutter. Her knowledge of wine was nil. College parties consisted of your basic rum and cola or lemon drop shots. Reluctantly, she suggested, "The Malbec, Mendoza?"

Leaning in and lowering his voice, he softly suggested, "We would be remiss being in this European-inspired lounge to drink an Argentinian wine. If you'll permit me?" he asked her permission before ordering for them. She nodded her agreement, relieved. "The '02 Chambertin-Clos de Bèze, two glasses, please"

His voice was mellifluous, the French dripped like honey from his lips. She found herself staring down at his mouth as he spoke, entranced by his smooth and gravelly timbre, the shape of his perfect lips and how soft they looked. It would be prudent to get that under control now, before the French wine arrived. She was unsure about the varietal that was about to be delivered to their table, but if it was anything like him, she knew it would be delicious, tempting, strong and able to knock her off her feet.

Once they were each poured a generous glass of the pinot, he raised his toward her and she followed suit.

"May this wine, red as your lips and full of promise as this night, be the first of many shared between us," he toasted.

She nearly swooned. Not twenty minutes into her first date with him and it was already exceeding her every unspoken expectation. She quickly took a first sip of her wine to try and hide the color that was rising in her cheeks. He raised his glass as well, eyes intent on her over the rim.

"I noticed that you were carrying some rather large books, last we met. What exactly are you studying at Columbia?" he asked, breaking the proverbial ice.

"Wait. I'm sorry, it has been two months since I last saw you, yet I have thought of you often in that time." Try every minute. Little white lie. "Are you ever going to tell me your name? It's only fair, you know mine."

"Call me Red. It's sort of a nickname," he offered, hoping that would satisfy for now.

"Red. Interesting. To answer your question, I am studying to be a criminal profiler," she said.

"Well, that's the last thing I am going to say this evening," he teased. Like she hadn't heard that before. She wasn't in the habit of profiling everyone she met, just the real contenders. She had already figured him to be wealthy, powerful, commanding yet somehow vulnerable. Like something in his past left a scar that could only be dealt with daily by covering up in layers of fine clothing and subterfuge.

"That would be a shame because I have never been a fan of one-sided conversations and I was hoping to get to know you better."

"I try not to make a habit of disappointing beautiful women. So what would you like to know?" he asked tilting his head slightly to the right, getting a better view of the candle at their table flickering light onto her slightly blushing cheeks. Beautiful did not do her justice, she was an angel.

"I hardly know how to respond to that. How did you become such an eloquent conversationalist?"

"I know this will come as a shock to you, but I'm a little bit older than you. My parents were professors, so I suppose I was taught proper speech and a broad vocabulary from a young age. I've also traveled a great deal. I didn't come here to bore you, though," he said, leaning back in his seat.

She leaned in the more he spoke about himself, hanging on every word. "I don't imagine you could ever be boring. I'm the boring one. There's not much that is special about me."

"Oh, I think you're very special, Lizzie." He caught her off guard. There was no other way he could think to do it.

"That's a fairly lofty sentiment, considering you don't even know me," she replied, suddenly feeling under his microscope. "And I don't think anyone besides my father has called me Lizzie in years."

He took a long, deliberate pull on his drink, buying a moment of time. "There is something I wanted to tell you. It's why I asked you to come tonight."

"Okay, Red, you're starting to freak me out a little bit," she replied, fidgeting in her seat now. She gulped down copious amounts of the expensive French wine. Feeling the warmth it sent to her throat spread from there to her fingers and toes. But she wasn't drinking for warmth now. She was drinking for composure.

"Perhaps we could walk a bit?" he suggested, hoping for a change of venue.

"I guess that would be ok. My dad would freak if he knew I was walking around the city at this time of night," she offered in slightly alcohol-induced honesty.

"I won't leave your side for a moment. I have a driver standing by in case you'd rather go for a drive," he was taking a huge risk suggesting she get into his car so soon.

"No, I think some fresh air might be a good idea." With that, he rose and pulled out her chair as she stood, helping her into her coat before pulling his own on. They crossed the marble floor of the grand lobby in slightly awkward silence. She was starting to compose her list of questions to follow up his subtle declaration. The chilly night air shocked her, eliciting a small girlish squeak from deep inside. He offered his left elbow, stepping to the side of her closest to the street. For a split second, she hesitated, warring thoughts raising internal conflict. She finally slipped her hand into his arm and looked up to meet his eyes. He was intently focused on her, surveying her reaction and trying to school his own as she touched him.

Once again, she felt the unmistakable spark at being caught in his gaze. Street noise brought her back to reality and they started to walk. She was keeping her shivers under control best as she could, but the chill of the night and the thrill of being on his arm was overtaking her. She finally gave up and drew closer to him, their legs in sync as they walked and very close. She was loathe to break the precious bubble they found themselves in, but there was now a nagging question in the recesses of her analytical mind.

"So you think I'm very special, huh? If I told you about my childhood and my extremely exciting life today, you might not think so," she remarked, causing him to slow them to a halt and take her left hand, turning her toward him.

"You _are _special, Lizzie. I'm sorry you don't see it in yourself, but I do."

Their eyes locked. Street noise muffled and passersby blurred. It was just him. Just her. He held her stare as long as he could stand it, knowing he was about to lose his nerve. A tendril of auburn hair blew across her face and he reflexively reached a hand up to gently smooth it back into place, lightly skimming her cheek with his fingers in the process. Her eyes slid shut at the contact. An intimate gesture, like they had known each other for years.

"What if I told you your childhood was actually quite remarkable? Sam did a wonderful job raising you, Lizzie."

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "I don't remember mentioning my father's name. What do you know about my childhood?"

"If you only knew how long I've waited, how far I've come to get to you."

She was beginning to feel exasperated. She dropped her hand from his, stepping back and raising her hands in defense.

"I don't know what this is, but I didn't come here to play games," she hissed. He tried to gather her back to himself. She was having none of it. Folding her arms in frustration, she finished, "Answers. Now."

"I've never seen this side of you, forgive me. I'm taken aback," he offered, hoping to appease and momentarily calm her. "What I said about your childhood is true. There was nothing ordinary about it. And here you are, grown into an intelligent, tough, incredibly beautiful woman. I know because, from a distance, I have watched you grow up."

"If you know all of this about me, then you also know that I don't form attachments, I don't do relationships well and I don't like being toyed with," she spat, now visibly agitated with him and turning to leave.

"Elizabeth, wait. Upsetting you is the last thing I ever wanted." She froze at the sound of his voice as it dropped, saying her full name. He reached into his breast pocket and opened the leather folio, thumbing its contents. Finally, finding what he was after, he stopped still, staring at his hands.

A photo.

Worn. Kept close to his heart.

He offered it to her. Her arms felt like lead, but finally reached up toward his outstretched hand, eyes following his.

And it hit her. The dress blues. Sam. His best friend. The party.

"How did you…" her words trailed off. She was overcome. Years of unrelenting emotions she willed to hold back were screaming to the surface. Refusing to give him a scene, she thrust the photo back into his hands and quickly spun on her heels, leaving the usually unflappable man speechless and stone-still. She was across the street and in a taxi before he could offer her a ride home.

* * *

_A/N: I am so grateful for your kind reviews. As always, just for fun, not making any money from The Blacklist._


	4. Cold Front

He stood alone on the street for a moment letting the chill of her absence overtake him. Winter was truly bitter without her warmth.

Finally, as her taxi disappeared from his sight, he was resigned that the night was over. His first chance, over. He sulked back to his waiting car and driver, sinking into the luxurious leather interior and sighing heavily. After a decade in his faithful service, Dembe knew when to urge conversation and when to drive in silence. He had always known Raymond to be a proper gentleman: he dressed impeccably well, sat up straight, held doors, ladies first. For the first time in his memory, he saw him slouched heavily in defeat.

Raymond's head rest against the seat, offering him a view through the sunroof up into the glimmering New York skyline. 'She's out there, somewhere, angry with me,' he thought. Even though Lizzie was a grown woman, after all she had been through in her young life, he couldn't bear to know that his decision to finally come out of hiding would be met with such disappointment. All he wanted, all he ever wanted for her was for her to have a normal upbringing and no obstacles between herself and what she felt her true calling in life would be. Four years had nearly passed and he knew every day of them where she lived and what she was studying. It wasn't his place, but if she had been his daughter, he certainly would have steered her away from Criminology. Interesting, her career path choice. She had grown up so innocently and Sam ran in a very small, very straight-laced circle of upstanding citizens. So much unlike himself.

The ride back to his hotel was forgivingly brief and he was quick to make his way to his suite. He didn't stop to hang his coat and hat but went straight for the scotch. He took a long pull, hoping the burn would slow the rapid pulsation in his chest. For the first time in years, Raymond Reddington was undone.

She was his undoing.

If brooding was an art, he was like Rembrandt. He faced an oversized leather chair toward the balcony and through alcohol fuzzed eyes, stared into the distance, not at anything in particular. Thoughts of her wouldn't keep at bay for long. He wondered what she was doing. Was she sleeping? Was she still fuming at him? Would she ever be willing to speak to him again? Warring thoughts battled on through the night. A migraine was creeping nearby.

Blocks away, Elizabeth closed her apartment door behind her and fell against it, the crushing weight of confusion pushing her to the floor. She had known for nearly four years now about Reddington but had never been able to find out much about him. Sam had said enough the night she left for college but she managed to casually eke out a few details now and then when she called. She couldn't understand all the secrecy around this man, why she wasn't able to know about him for so long and wait – why did he wait so long into their date to reveal who he really was? A familiar flip low in her belly confirmed it. He wanted it to be a date, too. He wanted her to see him as just a man. More than the angel of mercy from all those years ago. She had no memory of him. Was he taking a chance that she didn't remember him or did he know enough about her to confirm it? If he had been keeping tabs on her through Sam, her father had remained silent on the subject. But go figure. What else about her life was held back from her? It was all up for grabs now.

The tears that threatened on the street in front of him and in the taxi were given free reign. A balancing act of years between the deep longing to know her past and avoiding upsetting the man who self-sacrificially raised her, no questions asked had caught up with her. She knew it would. Sam knew it, too, he just wished there had been a way to give her the answers she seemed so desperate at times to know. Retired or not, even ex-military men still knew how to follow orders.

It was no use trying to pretend it didn't hurt, it wasn't confusing as hell to feel these sparks with a man only to find out their connection to a past life. She wiped at the tears finally and bringing her hand close to her face, she noticed it. She smelled him, lingering on her skin, her coat. Inhaling deep, his essence enveloped her being, spilling over into her soul. The ugly sob she struggled to hold on to begged for release. She surrendered. Hugging her knees to her chest and laying her head on them, she let the sobs continue until she was exhausted. Shrugging out of her coat and kicking off her shoes, she crawled into bed, flopping down with the rest of her clothes still on. Sleep came mercifully.

When she next opened her eyes, it was morning. Saturday. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing to occupy her racing thoughts of him.

Him.

In sleepy haze, she padded to the street-facing window and relaxed her forehead against it. He was out there, somewhere.

Across town, Raymond woke, groggy from a restless night, groaning inwardly about facing this day. Yawning and stretching, he went in search of coffee. Copious amounts of coffee. Pouring a cup, he made his way to the window, surveying the morning breaking through the skyline.

His Elizabeth, Lizzie. Things had gone unexpectedly bad. He could claim that because as a master game theorist, he had strategized about when it made sense to place himself back in her life, how he would do it, what he would say, even what he expected her reaction to be finally meeting him. What he didn't expect were all the little things he could never have planned for: how her smile infected him, the way her auburn hair refracted light and framed her angelic face, how her bright eyes burned into him, her touch. God, her touch brought him to life, would bring him to his knees, would be the death of him.

He had to get another chance with her.

Elizabeth was pulled from her wandering thoughts at the window by a knock at her door. It was odd, no one had buzzed from the street. She certainly wasn't expecting anyone while still in last night's clothing. She took a look through the peep hole in her door only to see a stranger waiting on the other side. She said nothing, thinking maybe he would leave.

"Ms. Scott?"

Dammit.

"Yes?" she replied, unsure.

"I work for Mr. Reddington. I have something for you," the tall stranger said.

"If its flowers or something, I'm not interested," she said to the door defiantly.

"Ms. Scott, please, it is nothing like that."

Sighing deeply, she ran her fingers though her hair, taming her bed head. Still hesitant, she cracked the door enough to see her visitor.

"My name is Dembe, I work for Mr. Reddington," he said to her, hand outstretched to her. She offered her own.

"It's nice to meet you, Dembe, but as I said, I don't want any gifts from him. I don't know if he told you about –"

He stopped her before she could elaborate. "I know about last night. I also know about you, Ms. Scott. Raymond was very much looking forward to finally meeting you," he trailed off, then with eyes cast down, "I have, been, too."

At that, she didn't know what to say. Her cheeks suddenly felt hot at the realization that she had been being watched, maybe even followed.

Dembe handed her a small box and with a silent nod, bid her good day.

She sank heavily onto the couch, the box in her lap staring up at her. Opening it, she gasped at the familiar sight of ivory linen and red ink:

_Open me…_


	5. The Box

_Open me…_

She could only stare at the box, like an unseen force was keeping her from giving into her curiosity. The silence of the room made her ever aware of her thumping heart.

Too small to be flowers.

Too soon to be jewelry.

Fighting against the heaviness in her limbs and with trembling fingers, she finally examined the box, cautiously opening the lid.

Inside, a phone.

She flipped it open, holding her breath. It was on, but scrolling through she noticed that it had seemingly never been used. There was one contact name: Red.

Relieved, she exhaled, unable to keep a stupid smile from spreading across her face. It shouldn't surprise her that he would pick the most non-conventional way to call her the night after their almost date. He was, at the very least, unconventional.

The giddy feeling at holding the only means of communicating with him in her hand dissipated into a wave of trepidation. He was going to call her. Ask her why she fled their date. Probably more, but she had so many questions for him. Some she felt that, given the chance, she would be compelled to ask, yet fearful of having answered.

She was on unsteady feet quickly, pacing, phone in hand. Holding it up, she stared intently at it as she crossed back and forth across her apartment, willing it to ring. Fearing it would ring. Palms sweaty, thoughts racing. At this point, she was convincing herself, out loud, that she could handle this, that she was unaffected by meeting the one person on earth that held the key to her past, maybe even her future.

For something she thought she wanted for so long, now with the possibility in front of her, the fear crept close. Intuitively, she knew there was something unsavory about her childhood and how she came to be Sam's Lizzie. But what? Secrets are kept for a reason. But here he was. The secret, in the flesh.

She was visibly trembling, sitting finally to forgive her weakened knees.

What would Sam always say? "You're a Scott. We don't break, we fight…"

_And we have not yet begun to fight_, he would always add with a far-off look in his eye that told her that a Navy story was coming. Tales of a different time, a place with far varying expectations, but he knew that the life lessons he gleaned from his time in the service of his country could be applied to civilian life, as well. She mostly rolled her eyes at him as he spun the tales.

That was before she understood. Before she realized that he was imparting life lessons she would one day cling to. Above all else, Sam would make sure, by combining everything he didn't know about parenting with everything he did know about preparing for battle that, against all odds, he turned out a fierce and headstrong young woman. A woman, he swore, would one day take on the world itself. She would be strong, resourceful, unbreakable.

Red was reclined in his sumptuous leather chair, still gazing out into the city, surveying the goings on below. He often found himself lost in the story of others, watching them walk from shop to shop, observing them in conversations, trying to imagine himself as someone so normal.

Normalcy.

It had been a lifetime. The more he thought about it, the more he felt lost. Could a normal existence truly belong to him once again? Could he safely live in one place for more than a few nights? Walk confidently during the day without a body guard? Go to dinner, the movies, grocery shopping, even? Do things ordinary people did, like fall in love?

In spite of all reason, the answer to every question was her name.

He made it a habit of being presumptuous and figuring the rest out later. He was twenty years her senior and God, he was painfully aware of it. All you had to do was look at her, the life, youth, exuberance just spilled out of every finger, every strand of her silken hair like warm sunshine. She was the sunshine. He thought about what a day of standing in her radiance would do to him. He thought about all he had seen, all he had done and the toll it had already taken on his appearance, aging him. His insides were just as affected. The tumultuous, nearly twenty year journey of truth was costly, taking away loving family, trusted friends and mentors out of his life, leaving virtually no one. Leaving the kind of emptiness that could swallow a lesser man.

But if she would have him, he would never succumb to the desolate wasteland of his own loneliness again.

Enough of this. He had to have her. He had to make the next move.

The phone chirped, nearly scaring her out of her thoughts. It was now or never.

Stone still, she opened the phone and listened in, saying nothing.

After a moment, he finally broke the silence, "Hello, Lizzie."

In only twenty-four hours, she was certain of a few things. One, that she could probably subsist on just listening to him say her name.

"Hi," she replied, cautiously.

"I'm glad you opened the box. I was hopeful that you would, but with how we said good-bye last night, I couldn't be sure."

"We didn't actually say good-bye. I owe you an apology for leaving you like that," she corrected, without actually apologizing.

"I bear some responsibility for that, too. I waited so long, Lizzie, it's not how I planned and trust me when I say, I very rarely go off-book," he admitted.

"What made this time different?" She could hear him sigh on the other end. She imagined his chest rising and falling with the weight of his words leaving him.

"You. Everything about you was unexpected."

She was unprepared for this, but the added privacy of the phone at least gave her some space to pace and fidget without the added pressure of his observation.

"I guess at some point, if you want to continue to speak with me, you'll be a little less cryptic and far more direct with me," she finally said boldly.

He chuckled warmly. "Ah, Lizzie, you don't know me very well."

"No, I don't, but you seem to know a lot about me. I can only surmise that you and Sam have kept in touch?"

"We have, but I'm ashamed to admit it has been years. A fact I will soon rectify, now that I have met you," he said.

She chewed on that for a moment. Sam and Red, in the same room after many years have slipped away, and she, now an adult. She imagined Navy stories exchanged, the usual catching up of old friends and at long last, the truth being shared with her.

"I think we have plenty to talk about between us before we involve my dad," she countered. His heart warmed at hearing her call him 'dad.' His desire for her had always been that she would consider Sam her father. He knew, all too well, that 'dad' went so far beyond being mere genetic linkage, but was a sign of love. A sign of trust. All he ever wanted for her.

"You're right, Lizzie, we do, but I would prefer we speak in person."

She gave that some thought. Instant electricity at their first meeting. Clear sexual tension in their second right up until he confessed his history with her. She considered his proposal of a third meeting. She wanted answers.

A cross roads lay at her feet.

The cost of answers no longer mattered. Reckless or not, she was all in.

"Okay. Let's meet."


	6. Mea Culpa

_A/N: Step in to my head canon, my friends. I did much research, but in the end, I'm taking some license so any historical facts that have been horrifically botched are purely my fault and for this, you have my apologies. Also, any random nod/homage you think that you notice is probably intentional. Nothing seemed off limits with this one and that's probably going to ring true for the rest of this as I am thoroughly unoriginal. Love you all. Love your comments, support and friendship._

The address he had given her was unfamiliar, yet she found herself walking briskly in search of it. Leaning into the wind and chill, she reminded herself – a few more blocks and everything would change.

Rounding the corner, she suddenly found herself on one of those streets that didn't quite feel like it belonged in New York. All ancient brick and hand painted shop signs. No glaring neon or glimmering marble, the raucous clamoring of taxis mysteriously absent. A far cry from The Lucerne.

Her eyes scanned around looking for the coffee shop, then, there he was. One impeccably dressed shoulder leaning against the brick, one hand partially in his pocket, pulling back his suit coat just enough to reveal how perfectly tailored his vest and slacks were to his trim form. As anxious as she was for answers, she admitted inwardly that seeing him again, appreciating his body, his eyes, the way he dressed, was thrilling.

"Hello, Lizzie," and his voice. His voice was like liquid sex. Should he never touch her again, she was sure that listening to him read the phone book would satisfy her already aching need of him.

"This is where we are going? This hole in the wall?" she questioned.

"Ah, don't be deceived by appearances, Lizzie. True beauty is found within."

She could only blink back at him and digest his words. Surely, he was speaking about more than coffee shops.

He held the door for her and smiling, with his head tilted to the side, "shall we?"

As he had before, he ushered her to their table with his hand at the curve of her back. Gentle, reassuring. They made themselves comfortable in a rather secluded booth. He helped her out of her coat then excused himself to get their drinks.

As inconspicuously as she could, she craned her neck around the booth to follow him with her eyes. The way he smiled at others, how he talked with his hands. She couldn't get enough of studying him. Everything about him was exciting and dangerous. Dangerous because her desire for him was steadily growing, regardless of their connection. Regardless of what he was about to reveal to her about her past. Their past.

He carefully placed two steaming mugs on the table.

"If you would like milk or sugar, I will be happy to get it for you," he offered.

"I prefer black, but thank you," she replied.

"Ah, just like me," and their eyes met for a moment before she felt her cheeks warm in her own shyness. She cast her eyes down into the mug, avoiding the intensity of his stare so she could collect herself.

"So the other night, you were starting to tell me about becoming a criminal profiler, but we didn't get very far on the –"he began as she raised a palm in protest.

"Wait. You're kidding me, right? I didn't come here for small talk, Red. I came here for a history lesson. Literally, every detail, right now," she demanded.

He looked away, trying so hard not to smile in admiration of her. Her gumption. She was sharp, perceptive and justifiably impatient.

"It's a long story, Lizzie," he said into the distance, a weary look crossing his face.

"I don't have any plans tonight," she stated matter-of-factly. She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward, challenging.

"You want answers about your parents, about how you came into Sam's life. Into my life," he lifted his eyes to meet hers then. "To understand, we have to go back to the beginning. To me and Sam. We met during a rather…unsavory assignment early on in our enlistment. He had a mouth like a sailor, quite literally, and got us into some hot water with our CO" he chuckled remembering a young and wild Sam. Lizzie visibly relaxed, smiling warmly. "Oh, the way our knees bruised after hours scrubbing that mess hall floor."

"I know so little about what he was like back then. I'm glad he was interesting for at least a while, before I ruined his life."

He narrowed his eyes severely, her words wounding. "Lizzie, how could you ever think you ruined Sam's life? You _saved _his life. More than you'll ever know."

She shook her head, disbelieving. "I saved him? I don't understand."

"You see, leaving the Navy was devastating to him. A long career of service to his country is all he ever hoped for," he began.

"And then I destroyed it."

"No. He was hurt about a year before you… well, just, a year before." He was visibly struggling now. Chewing on words, mentally ordering them and trying decide which ones to employ. "The Navy wanted to assign him to a desk job, but Sam's pride was wounded along with his leg and he decided to move on. He felt disgrace, disappointment and though it wasn't his fault, he wallowed in it for a while. You saved him from a life of living in that shadow, giving him fresh wind in his sails."

She hung her head, shameful that she labored under a misapprehension about Sam for so many years. She thought if she just kept her head down for a bit, he would miss the glaze of unshed tears collecting. Until one of them hurried down her cheek without permission. Taking a risk, he reached a hand out to lift her chin, careful not to wince at the evidence of her tears. Instead, he gently brushed over one cheek with his thumb, melting her insides. They shared a long, unblinking glance until he withdrew his hand.

"Elizabeth, Sam was always encouraging me to keep going. Keep running, keep fighting. I wonder what I would have become without him by my side," he recalled, his voice gravelly and low. "His time in the Navy, however brief, it changed things for him. For me, for you."

She cleared the lump in her throat and took a deep, cleansing breath and quietly thanked him.

His reassurances notwithstanding, the feeling of indebtedness to Sam was overwhelming, now more than ever. No matter who her father was, Sam would always be her dad.

She worked to find her voice once more. "So how is Sam connected to my real parents?"

"It's my fault, really. I am the reason he was caught up in all of this. I suppose you knew that."

"I had begged Sam for answers about my parents, off and on growing up. The night before I left for college, I cornered him. He told me about the fire, about my mother dying in a fire set intentionally to kill my father. Red, what was my father that people would want to kill him?"

"I can't give you everything. Not being a part of Naval Intelligence anymore doesn't make it less of a felony to divulge classified operational material. But that's why we're here, in this, as you called it, 'hole in the wall.' I trust the owners and this place is clean. No bugs," he began cautiously. "No listening devices," he whispered to clarify, seeing her confused look.

"I guess I have naïvely thought that cloak and dagger stuff like that only happened in movies."

"That's what civilians are supposed to think, but it's very real. During the last Cold War, there was so much distrust in the world, especially between major powers like the U.S. and the Soviet Union. Secrets were a commodity during the Cold War. They were traded like gold and paid for with lives. I was assigned to a deep cover operation to obtain secrets from a high ranking member of the KGB, posing as his attaché. I lived with him and his wife for two years and in that time, they gave birth to a baby girl," his said, eyes shining at her.

"Me? So, my real parents were Russian."

"Not just Russian. Royalty. Your mother was a Romanov by blood. She met and fell in love with your father, but marrying a member of the KGB was forbidden by her family, so they ran away. She changed her name and lost ties with everyone she knew. In the time I was with them, much as I tried, I never learned her real name although she went by Katya."

She inhaled deep, soaking in his words.

"And my father's name?" she tried.

"Lizzie, I can't. There's so much, I just can't," he said shaking his head slightly, somberly.

This was more difficult than she had imagined. Grappling with the past and all she did not know – things she may never know about herself.

"I guess I will have to accept that, for now," her thinly veiled promise to revisit this topic clearly not lost on him.

"You have to. It's the only way I know to keep you safe. Promise me that this will be enough for now," he pressed her, a look of near horror crossing his face.

"Red, should I be scared? Of knowing this? I mean, am I unsafe now?"

"Never be scared, Lizzie. You're a strong, vibrant, beautiful woman. You've deserved to know something about your past for a long time. I will only ever tell you what is safe for you to know. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he promised.

Though their relationship was new, brief, she somehow had faith that he would make good on this promise.

"During the years I lived with your parents, my assignment was to pass information about a program the then Soviet government was running back to the U.S. government. This went on successfully for nearly two years, but by then, the Cold War had reached a climax and the suspicion was upon everyone who could be leaking information to the U.S. Your father was not excluded from this suspicion and was under surveillance by Soviet counterintelligence. I was tipped off that they were coming for both your father and me, but they surprised us before I could escape. The next thing I knew, the house was engulfed in flames. Some parts are still hazy," he admitted, obviously overcome by the memory.

It was killing her to watch him struggle, especially at her own behest. She reached a hand over and set it atop his own, letting her thumb wander back and forth across his warm skin. At first he just watched her hand, seemingly amazed.

She waited silently for his eyes to meet hers again and when they did, she melted under the look of awe in his eyes. How long had it been since a woman had been tender with him, she wondered. Certainly, there were few, if any, that knew about his depth of devotion to his country and the safety of a little Russian girl.

"I remember it in flashes, mostly in nightmares," he admitted quietly. "My belief is that I was knocked out and left for dead along with your mother. When I came to, I saw her on the floor. Lizzie, I crawled to her through the embers, the house literally collapsing around us, but I was too late. She did have time, though, to hide you in a hatch in the floor, which she covered with a small rug and then her own body. Her last act was to try and put you somewhere safe."

Tears streaked her face unashamedly, now. Her memory had betrayed her, told her she had been unwanted by her mother. The truth, sinking in, was freeing all the anger and resentment she had built up over the years at this misconception.

"I had no idea. I always thought I was simply unwanted," she whispered, voice breaking through her tears.

He took her hand in both his own now. It was his turn to comfort her.

"Lizzie, you could never be unwanted. I know your mother loved you. I watched her as she was expecting you and then as she began to raise you and saw nothing but the purest joy and love that she had for you. It saddened me that at some point, my assignment would be over and I would return to the states and never see you again. If the fire hadn't happened, if I hadn't been there to cause suspicion to fall upon your father, maybe none of this would have happened. I blame myself for all that's happened to you. Not growing up with your real family," he confessed, a weight carried for years leaving him along with the air he expelled heavily from his lungs.

She thought about that for a moment. Even if he bore responsibility in drawing the attention of her father's superiors, he was following orders. What good would it do to be bitter about that which neither of them had any control over?

"When I heard you under the floor boards, I was so relieved. I only remember carrying you out of the house and running until we collapsed into the snow. If I hadn't had a tracking chip on me, I don't know what would have happened. We were airlifted to Quantico and, after a very long debrief, I requested to transfer you to a secure location myself. It was a long shot, but I knew if anyone was going to come after you, that a military commissioned orphanage would be an easy target. I knew you had to become an American, to assimilate into American life as quickly as possible. I cut your hair and changed your name and called the one person on earth I knew I could always count on."

"Sam."

"I contacted him and through back channels, got on the next plane I could to get you to Nebraska. You have to know, Sam would always have done anything for me without question, but taking you, he wasn't just helping out a friend. He fell in love with your little smile and sweet blue eyes instantly. That was the moment he became a dad," he said, hoping to assuage any doubt she could still have. "And you know the rest. Sam raised you. He did a fantastic job."

She flashed him a quick smile. Brief, but a glow he longed to bask in more often, should she oblige.

"I don't know what to say. This is a lot of information to digest. In some way, I am relieved to know this, and yet, I feel like it will take a while for all of this to completely sink in," she said.

"Understandable. It's not every day you have your life turned upside down," he assured her, but thinking of how his life hadn't been the same since she was back in it, how it would never be the same again.

He stood, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. She turned as he slipped her coat around her and said into her ear, "I think we have nearly worn out our welcome here. Shall we go?"

She turned around while his lips were still near enough to her ear to feel his breath. Only a whisper of space between their bodies.

She leaned into his ear.

"I don't want to be alone tonight, Raymond."


	7. The Truth Changes Everything

_A/N: If you are hanging in there with this story - thank you! While seven is viewed as the number of completion, or perfection, it proved to the the number of frustration in this universe. I am in no means done with this story, but I wanted to cover their emotions so much that it has take on a life of it's own. Now I understand! I so appreciate all the thoughtful reviews. They make my day and truly help me to become better at this! Disclaiming no ownership and purely enjoying the fun writing these lovely characters provides._

* * *

The ride to his place was quiet but comfortable. Her friends would all agree that she was a fairly chatty girl, but right now? Lizzie now felt the need for introspection. And of course, reordering the entire timeline of her life in her mind and heart. She stared out the window as people and buildings blurred by. The hum of the car and the gentle sway through traffic was lulling her into a fresh calm until she caught a glimpse of a man hoisting his little girl up on his shoulders. A single red balloon was tied to the girl's wrist and she was mesmerized by it. Like the world was a black and white photograph with a stirring pop of color. Her strong and attentive daddy maneuvered them through the crowded Manhattan streets. Lizzie imagined that they had just come from a circus or something that dads probably did with their daughters. She wouldn't know.

Of course she had Sam, of course she did. Learning the truth about her real father didn't change that. But the paradigm had shifted. She couldn't deny what she now knew. To say it was overwhelming wasn't giving the gravity of that past few hours any credence. So far, she felt she was doing a good job. The little girl with the balloon was just the straw.

She recalled the day she left for college and trying to be brave. Sam was always brave. She tried so hard not to cry especially given how stoic he tried so hard to be for her. When asked how he could make it through such emotionally taxing experiences, he let her in on his secret: just smile and swallow.

His warm hand covering her own startled her back to the car ride, to how close Red was. She felt his eyes on her and silently prayed he wouldn't notice the inner struggle that was threatening to make itself known. The quiver in her throat she willed away with each passing exhalation.

"Lizzie, a dear friend told me once if you don't want people to see you cry to smile and swallow. But you don't have to hide your tears from me. Given what you have just been through, what you have just learned, it's okay to feel, to grieve, if that is what you are feeling," he tried to comfort her.

"Sam told me that the night I left for college. It's not really working," she managed before the sob she had been forcing down finally was escaped. She felt even more defeat then, throwing her head down into her hands, crying.

He reached across the seat and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her toward him. She was reluctant at first, but then allowed herself to be drawn toward him, cautiously relaxing into him. With his arm around her now, he reached up and gently coaxed her head toward his shoulder. He kept his hand there for a moment, stroking her hair, lightly shushing her and repeating calming things over and over to her.

He was trying to do all the right things by her. Tell her what she so desperately wanted to know. Comfort her like a friend. Be there for her when she was reluctant to be alone. Twenty, even ten years ago, he would have tried harder to hold her at arm's length, but while she was actually in his arms? He was falling, hard. She could be his soft landing.

She could be his everything.

A soft sigh escaped him before he could even realize how much he was lost in his own thoughts of her. She sighed softly, leaning into him even further. Utterly content in the moment of closeness, they were unaware when the car came to a stop.

Dembe got out and opened the door for them.

"Sweetheart, we're here," Red said, gently lifting her chin, their faces mere inches apart.

Being in his arms, just being close had been so soothing, she was now drowsy and relaxed. He offered his hand to help her out and once she was on her feet, she didn't let go.

A short elevator ride brought them up to Red's apartment on the top floor. He led her in and took her coat again, fingers skimming her neck as he did and sending a shiver through her. Dembe had long disappeared through the apartment, closing a door behind him.

They were alone.

"I hope you don't mind, but I'd like something a little stronger than coffee to drink," he said lifting a bottle and tumbler from the bar top in the study. "Would you like me to pour you a few fingers?"

It was another of those moments when their many differences plagued her. Here she was, now standing in his world, on his turf, being offered his drink. She was too interested to shy away.

"Sure, is that scotch?"

"Yes, twelve year old single malt. Sure you can handle something this strong?" he said sauntering toward her with the glass stretched out to her unsteady, waiting hand. Now there was a question.

Something this strong. Something new and wild, tempting and intoxicating.

She took the glass, grazing his fingers as she did. Their eyes locked for a moment before he returned to pour his own drink. With his back turned to her for a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, mentally shaking his head to banish the wealth of unspoken thought.

With his back turned to her, she took a small sip of the liquid fire in her glass, grateful for that one moment to be out from under his watchful gaze.

He crossed to a sumptuous-looking leather sofa and sat in the corner, inviting her to sit as well. She sat within his reach, learning forward on her elbows, drink cradled carefully in both palms. The silence buzzed between them for a beat, she looking curiously into her drink, he gulping his down while she wasn't looking. Anything to level out the erratic way his nerves were quivering within him. His characteristic steadiness was uncharacteristically absent. They had just spent hours together talking over coffee, but now? With her next to him on his couch, in his home?

Thankfully she was keeping her distance. Before he could think better of it, he rose and refilled his glass and seeing that she had barely touched hers, returned again to sit next to her.

"Never waste good scotch. Lizzie, I can get you something else if you don't care for that," he offered, head cocked slightly, staring at her curiously.

"One of two things happen when I drink. I'm just pacing myself," she said, finally turning to look at him.

"Two? You don't just feel intoxicated?"

"Well, yes," she began, trying not to show her discomfort with his question. "I either fall asleep or become rather, friendly, shall we say?"

He knew at that moment, he should send her home. Definitely should.

The last thing he would ever want is for her to do something while intoxicated that she might later regret. But the alarm bells that would normally sound off in his subconscious were dulled by strong liquor and the strength of the tidal-like pull he felt toward her.

She took another sip, warmth spreading throughout. Feeling a bit more at ease, she moved close to him again, tucking in against his side. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, she relaxed her head against it. He toed his shoes off and crossed his feet on the coffee table, encouraging her to make herself more comfortable as well.

She took another sip.

"Red?"

"Lizzie."

"What were you like as a child?"

"Shorter."

She giggled and turned her head so her cheek lay over his heart.

"No, tell me something about you. I look at you and I see this mysterious, impeccably dressed man that I want to know more about. I don't even know what you do for a living," she said.

"I was a normal boy, I guess you could say. I was great at arguing, so much so that my parents wanted me to become an attorney. I was athletic, although you would never guess that these days," he answered, patting his soft belly.

"Stop, I happen to think you look great," she said putting her hand over his. He froze, anticipating what she would do next and whether or not he should let her. He couldn't get enough of her skin. Every time it came into contact with his own, he felt at home, but she was more welcoming than any home he had ever known before. Welcoming and accepting. He was so afraid to tell her the truth. To burst this bubble of sweet ignorance.

It could be sweet bliss if only his overactive brain could just stay silent. If only he could succumb to the desire of his flesh for a woman, for _this_ woman, and deal with the consequences later.

She was now comfortably snuggled into his side. 'Just a few more hours of this,' he thought. A few more hours with her before he shattered her image of him.

"When I was a boy, my parents would take me to the university with them in the summer as they set up their rooms for the coming year. I always felt drawn to the art wing, the smell of acrylic paint and canvas, to see the brushes situated in their cups drying and preparing to be used of their master again. I would sit and look at the works in progress and completed pieces and just awe at the gift that some people had," he began.

He chuckled, "I imagined it couldn't be that hard to pick up a brush and paint a masterpiece until I actually tried. When I surveyed what I had done, in truth, it was awful. Indistinguishable. I knew I had other gifts but artistry clearly wasn't one of them. I sat on my stool trying to figure out what it was about this horrible painting that made me continue to stare at it. My mother walked up behind me during these moments and was taking in the view when finally, she said, 'Raymond, I love it.' Of course, I didn't believe her and she was an English Literature professor, so what did she know? When I told her how much I didn't like it and asked her how she could she said, 'Because no matter what you create, I see the art in you. Your color in life, the light in your soul, and our creations? No matter what they look like, even if they appear messy, they are a reflection of our lives, full of beauty and mess intertwined."

A strange tightness and tingle collected in the center of her chest. The more he spoke, the more he endeared himself to her heart. A completely different side of him was being revealed. A softer side, reminiscent, full of experiences just waiting to be shared with her. The more he spoke, the more she felt herself falling.

"Your mother sounds like a pretty amazing woman," she said.

He got quiet for a moment. Her head felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a long breath and exhaled an audible sigh.

"She was amazing," he said resignedly.

She sat upright, facing him, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment. A far-off and sorrowful look crossed his face.

"Oh. I'm so sorry, Red," she whispered as his sad eyes drew themselves to hers.

Before she could let the moment pass them, she quickly leaned in and kissed him, softly, tentatively.

She pulled back slightly and opened her eyes to find his piercing back at her. He didn't protest. Did he want more?

Before she could say anything to cover the tension between them he reached for her cheeks, cupping them with both hands, he crushed his lips on hers. This kiss was anything but tentative. He kissed her hard and wantonly, working his hands into her hair and pulling her even closer to him. She was every bit as hungry in her response to him, tangling her tongue with his. She slid her hands down from his neck to his vest, working the buttons open. Pulling his hands from her now tangled locks, he opened her cardigan and pushed it from her shoulders.

They were consumed by each other. With no room for logical thought, animalistic instinct had taken over. Cradling the back of her head with one hand, he moved to lay her beneath him on the couch. She parted her legs to allow him to get even closer.

He left her lips, trailing kisses down her neck and crawling backwards, lifted the hem of her shirt to place some sweet, warm kisses at the sensitive skin there. He felt more than heard her moans of appreciation. Every sound she made lit him on fire from within and encouraged him to keep going. Sensing he didn't plan to stop at her belly, she put her hands in his hair, gently caressing him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her scar.

She was scarred. She had walked through fire. He had walked through fire, for her. This couldn't go on any longer.

He sat back on his heels, she propped herself up on her elbows.

She looked thoroughly debauched. Hair tousled and shirt wrinkled. She looked up at him through heavy lidded eyes, lips still engorged.

"Red? Is something wrong?" she quizzed.

"Lizzie, we need to stop." He had to look away from. Seeing her, laid out before him, waiting for him was squashing the scrap of resolve he still had left.

"The hell we do," she breathed, reaching up for his neck to pull him back to her mouth. She bit and sucked at his lower lip, trying to convince him to pick up where he left off.

He pulled away once more. If the words didn't come out now, he feared her enthusiasm would stave off this conversation until the morning.

"No, we can't do this. Not like this," he whispered, voice faltering under words he didn't wish to speak.

"I don't understand. I don't want," she huffed out a sigh, "– why do we have to stop?"

"There's something you need to know, Lizzie, before this goes one minute further. I should have told you sooner," he admitted, moving to settle back into his corner of the couch. She pushed herself up into her corner, feeling a wave of dread and embarrassment. Running a hand through her hair, she finally settled her elbows on her knees, her head down and face shielded from his stare.

"God, please don't tell me you're married."

"No, Lizzie, it's nothing like that. You asked me earlier what I do for a living and I didn't answer you. I knew that if I did, you would have run from the house and I just wanted a chance to be close to you. Even if just for a few hours. I knew I might never get this chance again," he confessed.

A look of horror crossed her features. She swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay.

He rose, pacing slowly in front of the couch that they would be making love on right now if he hadn't stopped them. He grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You're going to find this out sooner or later, given what you do. I wanted you to get to know me first in hopes that you would allow me to explain, that you would believe me and not jump to conclusions." He picked up his glass from the coffee table and quickly refilled it. Courage in liquid form.

"I'm listening," she finally said.

"Lizzie, I'm afraid I have earned a reputation over the years. Absolutely unintentional, but I hope you will come to understand that I have done what I have done simply to survive. In the midst of it all, however, I ended up as one of the FBI's most wanted. I hope you'll give me a chance to expl–" he was abruptly cut off by her springing off of the couch and grabbing the discarded cardigan from the floor.

"You hoped I'd give you the chance to _explain_? You're telling me that you are a killer and you wanted the chance to explain that to me?" she shrieked. Shoving her feet into her flats she headed for the door.

He reached out to try and stop her. To try and calm her, do anything to keep her from leaving in this state, knowing it could be the last time he set his eyes on her, but she flinched away angrily, nearly hissing at him.

"Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me again!" She ran from the apartment, the cold metal door hammering shut behind her and coursing a tremor through him.

She ran down all eleven flights of stairs.

The cold night air hit her and she ran across town until the adrenaline waned and her limbs threatened to give out.

She threw her fists into the wall of a brick building, allowing tears of loss, anger and confusion fall.

She felt so foolish. She had fallen for a killer.

The agony propelled her the final blocks to her apartment and once inside, the full flood came. Unashamed, uninhibited, she wept openly into the night and into the desperate quietness of her apartment for her foolishness, her pride and her now broken heart.

Laying a cool, damp cloth to her face, she washed the ugly cry for him down the drain and out of her life. The girl in the mirror stared back at her, a girl nearly unrecognizable.

She schooled her expression to one of indifference, though her heart would betray her with every pulse.

"Never again," she said to the reflection.

Something happens when you learn the truth about someone.

The truth changes everything.


	8. Divisionary

The morning sun broke in a magnificent auburn glow over the horizon in Manhattan. Glass-clad buildings reflected their piercing light to any and all that would behold it. The gift of a new day dawning held limitless possibilities for those who would grasp it. Raymond Reddington was satisfied with his perch over the city in his leather chair, giving permission for days to turn into weeks and for inaction to become his companion.

He looked out over the city, lost in his thoughts and swimming in solitude. His usual mask of indifference now a weary, crooked painting of emptiness. Dembe was watching him quietly from across the room. The steely gray walls seemed to be closing in on him. He had replaced food with alcohol and had lost weight. His concern spilling over finally into words he hoped would get through.

"Raymond, my brother, it has been three weeks. It is time," his trusted friend knew when to speak truth into Raymond's life. Few on earth could do so and remain in their place of respect.

Down deep, he knew Dembe was right. Red could always count on his ability to remain logical and grounded. The two balanced each other out well this way. Red brooded and let every emotion seep in and out of every pore while Dembe chose an even keel, chose a path of evenness and eternal optimism. His level-headed bodyguard was adding hopeless romantic to that list, it seemed.

"Perhaps if you shower, shave and dress in something nice you will feel better. Go and see Miss Scott. You need to talk," he said.

"She doesn't want to talk to me."

"She may not _want_ to talk to you but she definitely _needs_ to," he informed his boss.

"How can you know this? Did you speak with her when you delivered my letters?"

"No, but it is plain to see that she is hurting. She has been out of the house as much as you have lately. She looks thin, sad. Go to her Raymond."

Red continued to run his fingers over the now evident creases in his brow. Perhaps his friend was right.

"I'll consider it. The last thing I want to do is upset her right before her graduation."

"Are you planning to attend her graduation?" Dembe asked.

"I cannot miss it. But if she does not want me there, I will stay in the shadows. Besides, Sam will be there."

Across town, Lizzie was in her own state of disrepair.

"Come on, Liz. It's time to get you out of this apartment," her friend Maggie said, whisking curtains open to reveal that, indeed, another day had come. She breezed through Liz's apartment, picking up used tissues and the remnants of take-out trash. "This place is a mess. When was the last time you cleaned up after yourself? Or yourself, for that matter?" she asked sarcastically.

"I don't know. I sort of lost track."

"Sweetie, listen. I don't know who he is or what he did to you, but you have got to get yourself up and out of here because this is bordering on unhealthy," Maggie cast her a knowing look.

"What? No, Mags, really. There's no guy, I'm fine. Really," she said hurriedly and most unconvincingly.

"Liz, those sweatpants could walk out of here on their own. You've missed classes, you look like hell. I need you to clean up. I'm setting you up on a blind date," she informed her.

It was obvious to her friend, was it obvious to others? Dembe had stopped by. Was he also watching her? It seemed a possibility.

She sighed, resignedly. What could it hurt? She could use a good distraction after the last few weeks of self-imposed isolation.

"I guess I could use a night out," she admitted, more to herself than to her friend.

"Great, Michael will pick you up Saturday at 7."

"Saturday at 7," she saw her friend to the door and once closed, she padded out to the windows overlooking the busy streets below. People were out there living their lives. She was holed up in her apartment wearing hurt like a second skin.

The dark circles under her eyes told the tale before her lips ever could. Sleep had eluded her grasp since the night she last saw him. Just as she would collapse into bed and relax, she would remember their last moments together. His hands tied up in her hair and the way his lips moved in concert with hers. She had never been kissed with so much intention, such need. The exquisite weight of his body on hers. She did everything to banish those memories and focus on the ones that supported her ire. His admission. How he thought he could explain it away to her and make it all better.

So she did the one thing she was good at: she ran away.

And then he didn't come after her.

There were his letters, in crimson ink, unopened and still tucked into the bottom of the pile of unpaid bills and uninteresting periodicals. But he didn't come after her.

The phone he had Dembe deliver all those weeks ago sat silent and still. A few times, she opened it to make sure it still worked.

She grimaced, inwardly scolding herself. Why couldn't she shake the visions of them together from her mind? Why did she dwell on the way she left things as if she was wrong, as if she should have given him a chance? The man was a criminal, a dangerous, wanted, lying criminal. Surely dissecting herself from him was justifiable and to be angry about being kept in the dark about it? He was just heaping sin upon sin.

The love she knew had been growing for him had no gardener to tend to it now. She chopped it up and tamped it down, robbing it of sunlight. No, she would not love. Perhaps ever again. With her forehead pressed to the cool glass, the silent tears fell.

They call her unbreakable, but watch her fall to pieces.

Michael arrived promptly at 7 and Liz, still skeptical, met him at her door instead of inviting him in. He was handsome and well dressed, had graduated just two years prior to her and lived close by. He was an elementary school music teacher and had begun his career in the inner-city at a school in a rough neighborhood. She found it slightly adorable imagining him sitting cross legged on a tape-lined carpet, teaching second graders to play the triangle.

'Don't get too attached,' she thought, 'they just disappoint you.'

Their destination for the evening was a family-owned and operated trattoria specializing in Northern Italian cuisine. He was the perfect gentleman, holding the door for her, helping her get seated. He hadn't touched her, yet.

Their table was cozy and the lighting dim and romantic. Aging concrete walls were sponged with a creamy burnt orange paint and the glow it caused danced in Liz's eyes and lit her cheeks with warmth. She caught him staring a few times and each time she had been imagining that he – that Red – were here with her instead. Places like this were made for lovers. For two people that could hold an easy conversation – or say nothing at all and be at perfect peace.

She pulled her happy and content mask back on and stayed as present to the moment as possible. Michael hadn't broken her heart. Michael hadn't concealed his identity from her for weeks only to lead her on long enough to ensure she would still accept him. Michael deserved a chance.

They settled into a fairly typical first date exchange. Where did you grow up, what is your family like, do you want to stay in the city forever? Nothing overly personal.

A middle-aged woman with bottle-dyed platinum blonde hair came to their table, bringing their conversation to an abrupt halt. She rattled off the evenings specials, her accent unmistakably Brooklyn. Michael asked if he could order for them and she agreed. Perhaps it was time to let someone else take care of her.

"A bottle of San Felice Chianti. Two glasses, please" he ordered confidently.

She felt the rush of blood draining from her face.

A bottle of red wine. Two glasses.

Their first date, or whatever that was. The French wine and the candle light and 'oh I think you're very special, Lizzie.' His hand, how it settled into the curve of her back; warming, guiding and promising more fevered and intimate touches to come. The smell of his fine, pressed suiting and sandalwood permeating her clothing. The scent of him lingered around on her coat for days and just pulling it to her body and breathing in deep had an unusual calming effect on her. Of course, her heart would race at the thought of him, but they weren't anxious thoughts. Confirming thoughts would flood her instead. They confirmed to her that their meeting was, indeed, no accident and perhaps, they were drawn to one another as part of a larger plan. A story yet to be told.

Again, the waitress' return snapped her back to the present. She set two glasses on the table and opened the bottle in front of them. Liz was just taking it all in, trance-like.

"Liz? Are you okay?" Michael asked.

She stared down into the burgundy liquid in front of her, realizing that they wine had been poured, the waitress had left them alone again and she was too lost in her own thoughts to realize.

"Yea, sorry, I spaced out for a moment," she lied. She needed wine in her blood, quickly.

The two lifted their glasses toward one another.

"To possibilities," Michael toasted.

She wasn't shy about the long pull she took of her wine, it's bold and earthy spice igniting her nerve endings. Another swallow, then another.

"Michael, I need to be honest with you. I've been mentally somewhere else tonight. I thought I could do this, but I just can't. I'm so sorry," she said as she gathered her things and left the table, nearly upsetting it in her haste.

The fresh night air whipped through her and before she could change her mind, she knew where she had to go.

She hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address, her voice shaky, unsure.

A riptide of emotions swelled in her. As angry as she fought to remain, the pull back to him was overpowering, calling all of her very next moves.

She took the stairs, adrenaline rushing to her legs and keeping her feet under her every step of the way to his door.

Dembe cautiously opened the door, unprepared and surprised at the sight before him. They exchanged quick knowing looks and he wordlessly stepped aside for her and motioned to the sitting room. She breezed past him, wanting to make her entrance before she lost her nerve.

He was reclined in his usual leather chair, nearly empty glass of scotch dangling precariously from his fingers, gazing out the darkened windows into nothingness. The sight of her charging toward him pulled him from his trance. He shook his head, knitting his brows together in confusion. Was this a dream? Perhaps he had one drink too many. He looked at her curiously, waiting to see if the dream would speak or dissolve.

She stopped once inside the doorway across the room from him, keeping a safe distance.

"Tell me, Red!" she shouted.

"What do you want me to say, Lizzie?"

"I want you to tell me why I just left a perfectly good blind date with a man my own age who I have no complicated history with? Tell me why I just left that poor young man inexplicably before our waiter could even take our order to come here to be with you? If you have answers, I'm listening because this is too confusing. I planned out this whole evening for a week and was ready to move on, away from you, so if you could just explain to me why in God's name I am here… I think I'm ready to hear it," she hurled at him, voice still raised.

As much as he feared it might further enrage her, if that were at all possible, he was now beaming at her.

"Because you feel it, too."

"I feel what? Anger? Confusion? A ridiculous hole in my chest that wants to eat me alive?" she quizzed.

"Love," he paused, setting his drink down and making his way across to her. "You're in love with me," his goofy smile was melting her, "and I am in love with you, Lizzie."

Her eyes went wide, feet involuntarily stepping back until she was cornered.

Slowly and cautiously, he closed the distance between them. It felt like miles.

"Red, I'm not ready to pick up where we left off. I have questions. Thousands of questions."

"I know, Lizzie. But right now, I'm going to touch you. I have to touch you," he said, low and breathy.

She swallowed hard. Effectively trapped, she had to let go and begin to trusting this man. This man that had sacrificed so much for her. This man that had also killed and kept secrets was coming for her.

His hand softly swept over her flushed cheeks and his thumb brushed back and forth sending electricity through her. Her shiver did not go unnoticed by him.

He leaned in to her ear as she went stone still.

"Lizzie, I'm not going to kiss you until you ask me to."


	9. So It Begins

She turned slowly, regarding herself in a full-length mirror, her glimmering white graduation robe flowing and falling mid-calf. She checked her hair, half of it delicately pinned up in a loose pile that would fit just under her cap and the rest of it falling just below her shoulders. She added a pair of classically simply pearl earrings and a pearl necklace to finish her look. There were a few days that little girls looked forward to that hold special significance: her sixteenth birthday, her graduation and maybe someday, a wedding. The day already had a surreal quality, reality feeling to rest just outside her grasp here and there.

Her thoughts floated away to him. He was out there, somewhere, maybe putting on his own finery in similar fashion. Maybe not. Things were unsettled between them to say the least. She had drawn the proverbial line in the sand and he was frustratingly respecting it. They had spent time together, but in well-lit, public areas as the privacy of their darkened New York apartment living rooms proved to be much too tempting. Either he didn't trust himself or she didn't trust her own restraint, she wasn't sure which. The time between their meetings began to drag on, however, bringing her deepening sense of longing to the surface, a longing she was getting restless with. She could continue to fight her desire to give herself completely to him, finally satisfying her urge to know him. She could remain in the posture of holding him at arm's length until she was convinced she had all the answers he was going to divulge.

Or she could give in.

She was dying to hold him again, and to be held. To feel his exquisite weight pressing her into the bed beneath. Kissing him again was all she could think about - but he promised, he would not kiss her again until she asked him. What was he playing at? It seemed like some sort of crazy game of control to promise not to kiss her and leave the ball squarely in her court. How was he doing it? She had seen and felt the way she moved him. His moans of pleasure, the way he kissed her without reserve, his wandering hands. He was denying himself as much as she felt denied.

It had been a week since the last time they had met for coffee, but one week felt like a lifetime for the way that the days in between dragged on and on. She was anxious to learn as much as she could about her past, that's what she told herself when she invested more time than usual making sure her outfit and hair were just right. They talked for hours about his time in the service and Sam. He regaled her with story after story about their drunken exploits, attempting but not always succeeding to keep the stories appropriate for Sam's little girl. He told her of his upbringing, his nicknames in school and family vacations on the Cape. She hung on every word and did her best not to stare at his mouth. When they would part, he would take her right hand in both of his, giving her a slow nod and a smile.

Anything for contact.

His wretched heart craved her, her touch, her warmth. Conversation. Knowing that they would have these little meetings, however infrequent, kept him going. The light in her eyes as she spoke of her graduation and what might be next for her did not go unnoticed by him. Selfishly, he longed for the day when he would become a part of her future plans; a part of her future. Patience was a term that mere mortals threw around flippantly in proverbs about it being some sort of virtue, like something you can have or not have, as a sculptured jawline or a biting wit. Waiting patiently for a thing was not a quality the gods had innately blessed him with, no; it was earned and he had the scars to prove it. He'd continue to wait for her - as long as it would take.

The ceremony itself was nothing out of the ordinary, just seemingly endless names of classmates, many of which she did not know personally and most of which she would probably never cross paths with again. She was relaxed, enjoying the moment she had worked so hard for until they got to the M's. Her name would be called soon and she would cross the stage in the front of the domed arena in the presence of nearly five thousand onlooking friends and family. Sam was surely smiling and holding tightly to the digital camera she had to teach him how to use. If she got one stable shot of her accepting her diploma without his signature thumb in the frame, she'd be pleased.

As the fellow students in her row began to have their names called, booming through the microphone and echoing through the shellacked concrete building, an uneasiness settled on her, heavy and sudden. She fidgeted with the pages of her program, ran her palms down the sides of her gown, crossed and un-crossed her legs. Something wasn't right. Her breath and heart rate quickened. The man at the podium read, "Elizabeth Anne Milhoan."

Her legs went numb, the hair stood on the back of her neck.

Red was there.

In their short time together, one thing was already certain: they had an almost sixth sense about one another's presence. It defied explanation and certainly tested the limits of everything she learned in any human behavior seminars.

She rose quickly and followed the other graduates' path to the stage and managed her way up the stairs to accept her diploma. Shaking hands with the chancellor, she turned toward the photographer but found her eyes scanning the crowd for him. After a moment longer than normal, the chancellor dropped her hand and patted her shoulder, offering a quick congratulations and jolting her back to reality. She headed down the stairs and back to her seat, still trying to nonchalantly search the crowd for that one familiar face but it was no use. The audience was large and there were many men in suits. Her hunch, her sixth sense so to speak, would have to wait to be proven accurate or completely off-base.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, she exchanged some hugs and a few tears with friends then set about looking for Sam. And Red. Although, the feeling that the two men might just be under the same roof for the first time in a dozen years left her unstrung. Her mind raced at how she might explain things to Sam in an attempt to help him understand and accept Red's place in her life.

Finally, she found him waiting for her, staring down at the screen of the camera, eyebrows pinched in near consternation.

"Dad!" she shouted across the lawn. He knew that voice anywhere. His kind eyes rose to seek her out, and in seeing her, he began his gait toward her, opening his arms at the last few steps and enveloping her in a fierce embrace.

"My girl, so proud," was all he could get out, tears threatening and choking in his throat. He kept her close, willing the evidence of his pride and emotion away before pulling her back to look at his beautiful new graduate.

"I'm so happy you could make it," she finally offered, a little choked on the overwhelming emotions herself.

"I wouldn't miss this for anything," he said, tilting his head to the side just enough to catch the shadow of familiar face, almost a ghost.

"Neither would I," Red's deep and smooth voice came in reply. Sam's eyes widened as he took in the sight of his friend closing the final distance between them, advancing behind Lizzie.

Eyes widened and jaw clenched, she stood like stone as he closed the distance behind her, taking a place right next to her while all she could do was take in the expression on Sam's couldn't move, couldn't turn to look at him. She was already worrying her features, trying for a trace of unfamiliarity but she feared her eyes gave her away. Thankfully, Sam was too shocked to see his old pal from Navy days to take notice that his daughter was now trembling, unable to process exactly what was happening.

As Red now stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with Lizzie, Sam finally registered a smile, his body catching up to his thoughts and extending a hand to Red. Red smiled, taking his hand and shaking it firmly before Sam pulled him in for a strong but brief hug.

When the two had parted, Sam finally took a look at Lizzie to see that she was visibly shaken and mistook her pale visage for her unease at not being introduced to this friend.

"Where are my manners? Butterball, this is Raymond - "

"Red," was all she could manage, breathless.

Sam's eyes flitted quizzically between the kind, worn green eyes of his friend and the piercingly delicate blue eyes of his daughter and seeing more than a glint of recognition, knew that there was something unspoken going on. The awkwardness of the situation finally caught up to him and he cleared his throat and looked away, unable to continue trying to process the enormity of the moment.

"I see. Well, I'll give you some time to talk. Elizabeth, I'll wait in the taxi," he said quietly. As he disappeared from their view, she heaved a cleansing sigh and couldn't help but fling herself into his willing embrace, tension draining from her body as quickly as the skin of his hand connected with her bare arms. He pulled back, running both his hands up and down her arms, the soothing, calm and excitement his touch provided

"I don't understand, Red, I thought it wasn't a good idea for you to come her. My father just -"she trailed off, unsure what even to say next.

He frowned a little and began to stare at the ground between her feet. "Are you not happy that I'm here?"

"Happy? I'm thrilled that you came but I thought you weren't ready to face Sam, for him to know," she quickly tried to explain and in seeing his chin rise and his eyes meet hers once more, she finished, "of course, I'm glad you're here."

"I meant what I said. I wouldn't miss this for anything. Congratulations, Lizzie. You worked hard for this. You should be proud, and tonight, you should definitely celebrate."

She leaned in to whisper, hugging him briefly and deciding to run the tip of her nose lightly at the entrance to his ear. "Mhm, did you have something in mind?"

He half chuckled, "always, but I think I'd better let you have some time with your father."

She pulled back, casting her eyes to the ground, unsure of what to say next. She wanted to fling herself into his arms. She wanted to run away with him and never look back. "I guess I'll see you."

He lifted her chin level again, connecting their eyes once more. "Count on it."

She watched him walk from her for a moment before turning and sulking toward the waiting taxi feeling bereft and already missing him. Before getting in, she swung one last glance in his direction and caught him staring at her from across the plaza. Even from a distance, his power to make her shiver right where she stood overwhelmed her. But she there was no time to revel in the way his eyes could tingle every pore in her body, the way his posture toward her made her feel feminine, protected, longed for.

The ride back to her apartment was filled with a silence she hadn't experienced with Sam since the day she punched little Robbie Alexander on the playground in the third grade. He was disappointed in her, her choices, it seemed. She showed him in to her apartment and he quietly took a seat on the couch, hands folded properly in his lap. Seeing this, she went straight to the kitchen to put on some tea. Growing up, when she had a problem she didn't know how to handle, Sam would get the tea kettle out. She could almost hear him say, _t__he old Irish answer to all problems…put on some tea. _

Standing in her kitchen, she stared out into the city, much like her dear father was also doing; she lost in her thoughts about Red, he lost in worry over his only daughter. The whistle of the kettle pulled her back to the moment and as she poured the mugs, she inhaled deeply, doing everything to calm herself.

She sat and passed Sam a mug, buying time with milk and sugar, anything really to delay the inevitable conversation they were about to have. The ting of silver on china was all that could be heard and she realized she was holding her breath.

"Were you going to tell me?" he finally asked, breaking the ice and the uneasy silence.

"Eventually, yes! But Dad, it's not like anything has happened and -"

He held up his palm immediately and sensing where she was going with her explanation, closed his eyes and shook the inference from his mind.

"Elizabeth, you're an adult. I'm not here to tell you how to live your life. I have concerns though," he began, hesitantly, knowing that if he tried to steer her away from Raymond Reddington that she'd run right at him. He'd seen more than enough women fall to his charms in his time and he just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that his little girl was about to be one of them.

The problem was, she was not just any girl, which was maybe the most disturbing part in this whole Shakespearean episode. Sam could still smell the sulfur on Red's clothing when he showed up with her; he could still see the soot settled in the beginnings of expression lines on his face. He was no stranger to their connection. Over the years, his involvement waned but the money was always there. He insisted - no, demanded, she be well cared for and have every opportunity a child with a traditional home would have and more. He wasn't at fault for her lot, but for some reason, he lurked at the fringe of their everyday lives, ensuring that she wanted for nothing. It certainly wasn't for him to tell her at this point. Red was in her life now, it was up to him now to come clean with her.

And now they were...involved. He swallowed, willing himself to go on.

"Sweetheart, I just don't want to see you get hurt."

She eyed him soberly, letting her next words bathe over her mind until she had sorted them all out.

"All my life, I have felt like I had this bigger purpose in store for me, like there was something really special about me that was just waiting to be unlocked. When I'm with him," she paused, taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, measuring the weight of her next words, "I feel like he's the other side of me. I feel known. Loved beyond explanation, though we haven't admitted as much."

The relief at finally giving life and breath to her feelings for Red gave her a sense of freedom. She looked expectantly up at Sam's face, hoping against hope that he would find his way to understanding and maybe someday, acceptance. His kind eyes danced as he finally smiled at her. He could faintly recall being young and hopelessly in love. As a father, he worked to be relatable, if nothing else. Maybe the years had dulled the memory and the blunt edge of the feelings he had for his first love, but it was still there; enough to support Elizabeth as she ventured out into the real world on her own, ready to make real world choices and mistakes. He raised her to be strong and independent, knowing all too well that one day, these choices may be thrust upon her and that constant reminder was enough to keep him surging through the years of teen angst and drama to ensure she would rise above by the time it really counted.

Pulling her into a hug, he kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair. She used to fit so snugly under his arm, used to need him, used to be content to hide within the sanctity of the life he had created for her, but now, she was ready to make her own life, and he had to find his way to accepting that.

"I love you with all my heart, butterball. Anything that makes you happy makes me happy," he tried, relieved she couldn't see his face. In this, as in many others, he knew he would just have to fake it with his features until his mind and heart caught up.

After dinner that night, Sam decided to turn in early, claiming jetlag and the excitement of the day. In truth, he knew where her thoughts were, where she would rather be. She was doing her best to be present to the precious and few moments she had with her father, but her mind wandered a few times. Perhaps he saw it in her eyes, knowing when they went glassy and distant where wished she was.

He bid her goodnight, reassuring her that he had everything he needed and was perfectly contented, should she decide to go out and celebrate with friends for the rest of the evening. There was no need to convince her. There was only one place she wanted to be.

She sent Red a quick message with an address and quickly changed into a sleek, tea-length black dress and heels, pulling her hair up and pinning it in place. She left her building, hailing a taxi and gave the driver the address.

Her heels clacked across the gorgeous Italian marble grand hall as she made her way to the hotel bar. Seeing she had arrived first, she ordered a bottle of champagne and two glasses. By the time the second glass was poured, she felt his breath hot on the back of her neck.

"The Lucerne? Good choice," he breathed.

She turned into his arms with the champagne, offering him a glass. "I thought we could go back to where it all began."

They sipped at their drinks as the grand piano began a new song in the background.

He set their glasses on the bar and took her hand, leading her to an open area of the floor and pulling her close. She slipped an arm around his neck and the other into his guiding hand.

_We've only just begun…to live._

"Red, did you ask them to play this song?" she smiled.

_So much of life ahead…_

"It must be fate," he said, moving her expertly around the dance floor, his cheek resting against hers, their breath warm and familiar in one another's ears.

_We'll find a place where there's room to grow…_

Pulling his hand at her low back even closer, he slowed them to a sway. The champagne, the dancing, it was all a dizzying combination made only more intense by the way he had pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. His eyes, where she saw her future and tonight felt like the beginning.

"Red?"

"Sweetheart?"

"Kiss me."

_And yes, we've just begun…_

* * *

_A/N: My abject apologies for the time since this has been updated. I got a fresh wind to finish it and will be posting more regularly until it is finished. Thanks for hanging in there with me and for the sweet reviews and nudgings to return to this._


	10. Partners

_A/N: I realized today that this story originated last January over the winter hiatus – pre-Katerina. It was always my theory that Lizzie was Russian born and regardless of canon events, I'm still taking that theory in my original direction which adds another level to the AU. I hope you enjoy! Reviews are most welcome and appreciated!_

Red was, if nothing else, a willing party to a deadly beautiful woman who was able to give orders. When Lizzie told him to kiss her, he was all too pleased to oblige. He would never keep anything from her that she deserved.

As long as it wasn't unsafe.

There was a time, years even, where he considered kissing her dangerous, not only for her but for them. His residence in the shadows, he told himself, was to keep her safe from uncovering the truth about her past. She knew, for the time being, all that he could safely include her in. And so he considered it his job to maintain his distance and anonymity until the situation demanded otherwise or until he could no longer stand it. If he was honest, it was more the latter. He was, at the end of the day, still just a man.

That night, the way her stocking-clad thighs brushed against him, the heady fragrance of her perfume, the delicate peek of her breasts at the daring neckline of her cocktail dress left him aching with need and alive with excitement.

And now, he was kissing her again, dancing with her, pulling her close with only their future in front of them. She didn't ask, but there was no way she could refuse or resist. The temptation to deepen their kiss was overwhelming, but Lizzie was acutely aware, even through her haze of champagne and arousal, that they were still in a public place. Lacing her fingers with his, she led him across the gilded grand entrance to the hotel and out into the night.

The warm summer evening lent itself to strolling, so they did, arm in arm for several blocks. He let go of her just long enough to remove his suit coat, letting it perch casually on his hooked thumb and drape over his broad shoulder. He pulled her in snugly to his side, his free arm wrapping around her tiny waist. They reached a dimly lit park and settled themselves on a bench facing the river. It was a calm and peaceful evening, the sounds of street traffic faintly heard in the background and the lulling sounds of the river making a delightful backdrop for these stolen moments together. Time, they knew, was fleeting. Sam was asleep back in her apartment. There was no way she could spend the entire night out and still face him in the morning.

The thought alone sent her into his arms with a fury that surprised them both. She scrambled for a hold on his neck, pulling him down to her and crushing her lips to his. They continued for some time, blissfully unaware of anyone that might witness their public display. Red slid his hands into Lizzie's hair, guiding her head at the exact angle that he wanted it, at the perfect angle for his tongue to glide smoothly and expertly over hers. Her skin tingled everywhere. He was so good at this, they were so good together and they just fit. She could only imagine how good he was beyond where she had allowed him thus far to go.

Reluctantly, Red broke their kiss, aware that if they didn't stop, he's steal her away to his apartment regardless of the fact that Sam was visiting. He remained close, his arm draped protectively across the bench behind her as he nuzzled his nose into her hair, stopping now and then to kiss her temple. He was stalling, ordering the next words slowly, carefully in his mind, the anxious feeling welling up something he desperately tried to keep at bay.

"You're awfully quiet. Something on your mind?" she asked, extracting herself from his arms enough to turn and cross her legs toward him. She could see the pinched look about him, a worried expression that began to concern her.

"Lizzie, there's been a development." He turned then, looking off into the distance. "I wasn't going to tell you so soon. I didn't want to spoil your graduation night," he answered hesitatingly.

"You can say anything to me," she said sweetly, her head slipping to the side and her gaze soft and tender.

He shifted in his seat, finding it difficult to sit still under her watch. Swinging his head back toward her, he chewed on the unspoken words he knew he needed to say. She gently laid her hand on his bare forearm, caressing his warm skin with her thumb. Her sweetness would soon be of little comfort, but there was no turning back now.

"I want to you understand that, no matter what you choose, no matter what happens, that I will always be here to protect you. I will always do everything in my power to keep you safe," he began and sensing her look of immediate concern, quickly finished, "I want to share some news with you, Lizzie, but you're under no obligation of any kind. I need to make that clear, first and foremost."

"Red, you're starting to scare me. What's going on?"

"Your father is in town," he finally blurted out, unable to hold back under her stare.

"I know, I left him sleeping in my apartment an hour ago."

"No. Not Sam," he replied gravely, the inference clear.

She stared at him for what seemed like long minutes, her mouth gaping, her fingers trembling. Instinctively, he pulled her back into his warmth, into the protective safety of his being and presence in hopes that somehow he, the man that is the reason she has any knowledge of her real father whatsoever, could now calm the storm.

With her cheek pressed firmly into his chest, she reigned in her thoughts, steadied her breathing and finally found her voice.

"So, what do we do?" she asked, lifting her head and sitting up straight and confidently next to him, her eyes piercing his.

_We_.

He sighed in relief. So they would be a team. And what a great team they would make. The logistics, the plan, the tech - everything would work itself out, but having her? Having her and her confidence in him was a game changer.

He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, biting back his urge to either kiss her with all the pent up fury already being held expertly at bay or break down weeping at the precious thing she had become to him. Once just a dream, an unreachable pinnacle was now placing herself firmly in his camp.

"Well...what _we_ do depends entirely on you. Your involvement could be dangerous. If your father recognizes either of us, things could go sideways," he finished somberly.

"So we go in disguise?"

"It's an idea, but Lizzie, we have to be wildly careful at this juncture. If anything ever happened to you again…" He trailed off, a distant expression crossing his features with the pain and guilt their joined pasts ignited in him. Intelligently, he knew she was an adult who could make her own decisions. It was also apparent that, despite his efforts and what he considered to be miserable shortcomings in trying to do right by her over the years, her life seemed to have turned out well. Exceptional, even. But he would accept no accolade or recognition for it, no. He merely played the silent benefactor while she and Sam deserved all the credit for overcoming their obstacles: adoptee and single father, foreign-born orphan and ex-military protector.

"Nothing will happen to me, Red. I have you," she reminded him confidently, giving his hands a reassuring squeeze. She wanted his trust in her as an equal, a true partnership.

He looked back up at her, looking more calm and resolute. "And you have me. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Do we know how long my father will be in town? Where does he live now? What name he goes by?"

"Sweetheart, I know you must have a thousand questions. I wish there were easy answers, but the truth is, your father has been off the radar for many years. I see two possibilities. On the one hand, he could have remained a member of the KGB, now the FSB or maybe joined the SVR. Alternately, he could have retreated into seclusion and out of public life, maybe even into more lucrative, privately-financed endeavors. Either way, as I said before, we need to use caution," he explained. He wished that it were simple, that he could just give her one normal piece of her past but even this held many complications.

"I think we should follow him," she spoke up boldly. "I think we should see what he is doing in New York. Perhaps it will be a clue to what he is up to these days."

"He is already being followed," he said with a small smirk.

"Dembe?"

"Yes."

"But I want to be involved. I don't want to live on the sidelines of my own life any longer. Please, let me help," she pled.

He tried to exhale his fear and doubt, but to no avail. Faking it would have to do for now.

"Okay, Lizzie. But not tonight. I need to get you home safely to Sam. We can meet tomorrow to discuss a plan after his flight home."

She nodded in agreement, rewarding him with a satisfied smile. To be trusted and counted a partner by him was a feeling she would never be able to quite put into words. That night, while Sam peacefully slept in the next room, she went to bed with this overwhelming thought running through her mind: Raymond Reddington was her partner.


	11. Covert

A new morning came and with it, promises of new things to come. Always an early riser, Lizzie loved watching the sunrise from the windows in her living room. She loved how the steely blue night touched the fiery orange morning horizon until it could no longer stand the warmth, dissipating until the next time the moon would call upon it again. Her bare feet hit the hardwood a little lighter that morning. She was a new graduate. Sam was no longer in the dark about her relationship with Red. She and Red were partners.

Lizzie's ached for Sam to live closer, to be able to share their lives - big, small and all the day-to-day in between. Even so, she put it aside as she prepared coffee and breakfast before seeing him to the airport. When she returned to her apartment that morning, there was a small box at her door with a plump, red bow sitting atop. She bent down, immediately recognizing the slant of his writing on a tag containing just her name. Once inside, she sat down with the box in her lap, fingering the rich velvet ribbon. Slowly, she let the ribbon fall open and lifted the lid. A strange assortment of items lay inside that she wasn't completely sure what to make of: a sheer white blouse, a black apron, an earpiece with its receiver, and a blonde wig.

She laid the items neatly on her coffee table attempting to figure out where he could be going with this. Even though she had been the one to recommend using disguise to get in the same proximity as her father, she had discounted that he would actually take her up on it, and so soon. It wasn't long before her phone rang and she lunged from her spot on the sofa to reach it, sure it would be Red.

"I got your...gift," she said.

"Good. We go to work tonight," he informed her.

"Tonight? That's sooner than I thought."

"Lizzie, if you're not ready -" he started, sensing her hesitation.

"No! I mean, no, Red, I'm ready, I'm just...I don't know. I'm excited. Maybe a little nervous."

"It's okay to be nervous, but if it becomes too much, you just say the word," he reassured her, combing back through his training and early days in intelligence. There was surely a day he wasn't as practiced and smooth as presently, but even that was difficult to remember. This world, this _life_, had become life. Second nature.

"So, what's with the apron...and the _wig_?" she finally asked.

"Not over the phone. I'd love to see you. Perhaps I could come by in an hour?" he asked.

"I'd love to see you, too" she breathed, her mouth suddenly dry as anticipation raced through her veins.

"See you then."

The knock at her door came exactly one hour later. She peeked through the peep-hole in her door in time to see him tip his navy fedora to her. As she opened the door, he scanned the hallway in both directions before removing his hat and stepping inside her apartment. As soon as the door latched behind him, her lips sought his expectantly. After a few stolen moments with their hungry bodies pressed up against the door, their hands scrambling and breath heavy, Red was the one to finally but regrettably separate them.

"It's nice to see you, too," he breathed, a mere inch between their lips. He ran his hands up and down her arms and smiled. It seemed to be his way of halting any further progression of the kiss, his way of keeping them on track. She smiled widely at the thought, realizing it was wise for one of them to be holding the reigns and for it to be him. Hooking her arm in his, she ushered him to her living room where the box and its contents sat.

"As you know, Dembe has been surveilling your father since he arrived in town. Over the last several days, your father has frequented a restaurant in Little Odessa. Tonight at eight, he is to meet with an associate to retrieve something. It could be a package or information; we aren't exactly sure. What I propose is this: you go in as a waitress, as you may have figured from the contents of the box," he smirked and she returned with an equally beguiling smile of her own.

"Even with these," she paused, running her hands over the wig and apron, "I'm sure I can look the part, but how do I just show up at this place and have a waitressing job?"

"Don't worry, Lizzie. The restaurant is this great little hole in the wall and the owner just so happens to owe me a favor. He'll have you assigned to tables near your father, but you won't actually have to come in contact with him. All you have to do is get close enough to record the conversation with his associate," he explained, nodding the direction of her earwig and its receiver.

She followed his hands across the items. "How do I record the conversation?"

"You use this," he said, reaching into his jacket and producing a black velvet box. He beamed handing it to her as he watched her eyes sparkle in response. "Now, don't get too excited. It's the kind of jewelry a Russian waitress living in Brighton Beach would be able to afford."

She opened the box to reveal an antique, carved shell cameo of a young woman with a delicate gold chain attached.

She gasped. "Red, it's lovely."

"I thought it would be fitting. The cameo is of Catherine the Great. Your mother had one like it that she favored," he began to trail off seeing her expression suddenly shift into wonder and curiosity.

"My mother," she whispered, pinching her brows together, fingering the elegant filigree and allowing her thoughts to flit away for a moment.

"There's a mic in the cameo. It will record everything in a six foot radius," he informed, changing the subject.

She looked up at him after a long beat seeing the sincerity in his eyes.

"Lizzie, you don't have to do this," he reminded her.

"I want to. It's time for me to find out where I came from and who I really am; this is a step. Thank you for your concern, but I'll be fine," she reassured him again.

"Good. Well, I have some other business to attend to before tonight. You, Dembe and I will test the comms this afternoon and if all is in order, I'll pick you up at six o'clock for your shift at the restaurant. And Lizzie? I'll be in the kitchen the whole time and Dembe will be in the car right outside the restaurant. You'll have plenty of back up," he informed.

She had back up. This was the real deal.

"So that's it? I just pretend to waitress, record a conversation and be on my way?" she questioned, her simplistic take on the situation coming off of her confidently.

"Well, yes, but it's not quite that simple," he said, taking her hands and lowering his voice, trying to convey the seriousness of their operation without scaring her. "It still will be dangerous to be in his presence. We have to make sure you're not seen or followed out of the restaurant. Once you get the information he's meeting this informant to discuss, get out of there. Don't wait for me."

She nodded her ascent, starting to process the risk involved - risk she had no prior familiarity with - in gaining more information about who she really was. She knew, however, that as with anything worth a damn, you never know but you have to try.

It was it worth at least that much to her.

That afternoon as promised, Red signaled her for their comm check. She'd always been enticed by his enchanting voice, but now, with him in her ear for only her to hear, it was even more thrilling. At about the moment she could have slipped into a fantasy state, Dembe chimed in, breaking the spell.

She was dressed and ready to go when the doorbell rang at six. Instead of Red appearing on the other side of her door, it was Dembe; he was not an unwelcome surprise but was a surprise nonetheless. He dressed more casual than his usual, tidier appearance when he was accompanying Red. Clad in olive fatigue pants, a chocolate brown tee and complimenting button down with the cuffs rolled.

"Hello Dembe. I thought Red was picking me up," she greeted, trying to not sound too disappointed.

"Mr. Reddington decided it was unwise for you both to arrive in the same vehicle. We must take every precaution so the two of you are not connected in the vicinity of the restaurant." She went to pick up her purse but he stopped her. "Elizabeth, you cannot take any identification with you. Nothing that can be traced back to your real name," he advised.

Suddenly, the gravity of the situation she was walking into settled over her, and then came in waves. She set her purse down and took a last look in the mirror to make sure the wig was in place. With her brown locks safely tucked away and out of sight, she shoved her trembling hands into the pockets of the apron hoping Dembe wouldn't notice. Before leaving her apartment, she asked Dembe to help her with the clasp of the cameo necklace. With that, he ushered her into the stairwell, out the back exit of the apartment building and down the street into a dark, unmarked sedan._ Not Red's usual mode of transportation,_ she thought to herself. They really were taking every precaution, deviating from the normal.

Once in the car and buckled, she pulled down the vanity mirror for another quick look. She fingered the cameo, adjusting it on the chain before letting it fall at the top of the blouse.

"Testing, one, two, three," she spoke in a hushed voice, her chin angled down toward the mic.

"Read you loud and clear, Lizzie," came Red's voice in her ear. She reached around to the waist of her slacks to the receiver and adjusted the volume.

"I've got you five-by-five, Red. Dembe and I are en route," she said smirking into the mirror at this new girl.

"Look at you. Already a pro," he replied. If only she could see the pride rippling off of him.

"I know a guy."

"Sure you do. Alright, let's keep the channel open unless we need it. And no more familiar names from here on out," he reminded her.

"10-4," she replied, confidently.

Several minutes later, their car arrived and parked a block from the restaurant. Taking a deep breath, she laid her finger one last time on her earpiece, knowing it was there but needing the reassurance. With her hand on the door handle, Dembe wished her luck one last time before she conjured a smile for him and continued out the door and onto the street. A short walk down an uneven brick alley brought her close to where the restaurant was. A rusty metal door with flaking once-white paint was swung open and propped with a metal crate. A man in a dingy apron and navy ball cap was leaning against the brick smoking a cigarette. She slowed her gait momentarily until her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit figure.

Red.

Hearing her approaching steps, he turned then, fighting to keep his emotions from screaming to the surface. There she stood in all her youthful beauty, looking very much unlike herself. She wore the blonde well, the flaxen waves complimenting her skin and lighting her cheeks up as if from within. Her eyes shone, looking ever more prominent amidst the halo of hair now framing her face. He allowed his eyes a brief moment to travel down to the top of her blouse to where the cameo necklace came to rest. Though her mother had been brunette, in a small way, she resembled her. _She would be so proud_, he thought. If only she had lived long enough to see what an exceptional person Elizabeth had become.

"You're five minutes late, Elena," he barked, his voice coated with his best Russian accent.

"Prosti," she uttered in a hushed and bashful voice. Since he first informed her of her true heritage, she had taken it upon herself to pick up some common Russian phrases, though she never dreamed they could be put to use in this manner. She squeezed by him, through the narrow door and into the noisy kitchen. Dulled aluminum pots hung on equally dull metal racks, swinging occasionally from the bump of a busy line cook; gas flames curled up around sizzling frying pans and chilled smoked herring sat neatly arranged on a white platter outlined in faded gold and burgundy. The overwhelming mixture of aromas did little to quell the twinge of anxiousness that was sitting smack in the middle of her gut. But he was right there like he said he would be. Tossing the cigarette into the alley, Red pulled on the rusty door behind him, washed up and went back to chopping cabbage. Lizzie went to the sink to wash her own hands, noticing with her peripheral vision that Red was skilled with a knife. Somehow, that comforted her.

She picked up a small tablet and pen and stuffed them into the pocket of her apron. Through the window in the swinging door that led to the dining room, she stopped to survey and get a quick layout. One main entrance, only a hostess stand nearby so potentially an easy exit. Ladies room, men's room, a dozen booths split among the two long walls and tables of 4 scattered in the middle. The wall opposite the entrance was painted floor to ceiling with a mural of Saint Basil's, it's flame-like spires twisting and licking the sky, rich colors implying royalty, wealth and tradition. Each side of the mural was framed in heavy, velvety drapes in deep burgundy, tied back with gold cord. She was tranced for a moment before she noticed another server headed her way. She stepped aside just in time and with her back now to the dining room, caught Red's eyes and attention long enough to see him nod.

At his signal, she entered the dining room, first to clear dishes, refill glasses, whatever she could do easily without being noticed. Growing up introverted and shy, flying under the radar was easier than she thought.

Before she knew it, it was eight o'clock. A tall man with a full head of grey hair and an unkempt grey beard entered the restaurant, mumbled something to the hostess and plodded his way across the dining room to a booth near the back. With no way to discern if this was her father or not, she decided she would get closer and at least get his voice recorded.

She worked her way around the room for the next few minutes until the tarnished, brass bell over the door caught her attention once more as another man of middle age entered the restaurant. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he, too, leaned in and whispered something to the hostess. He had a full head of closely cropped silver hair and wore a trench coat. It struck her as odd, given the rash of summer heat that had swept the city that week. Electricity ran down her spine and she just knew. It was him.

The man seated himself with the disheveled man who arrived just minutes prior and the two immediately leaned into the center of the table and began talking. It wasn't long before the man with the white hair was gesturing with his hands, clearly conveying some point very expressively. She was getting close now. With her back to the men, she quietly replenished the water glasses at a table near them.

As the men continued to converse in hushed tones, Lizzie strained to hear what they were saying. She quickly discovered that she couldn't make the translations fast enough, proving unhelpful around these two fluent speakers. After a minute or so, she was catching one in three or four words but out of context, they weren't making much sense to her. The men were very concerned about something called 'masha' and the 'plan.' Whatever it was, her father seemed to be angry with the other man at his lack of results. The associate seemed genuinely apologetic and somewhat fearful of her father and she considered he was probably betting safely on both accounts. They slipped back into normal conversation again but their guarded demeanor stood firm. Leaning back in their seats, they sipped their drinks, pausing only to look around the room suspiciously.

She moved on to her other tables, trying to keep her face out of their sight. After she had covered the entire dining room, she made her way to the kitchen. Red was still flambéing something, throwing ingredients into sizzling pans and managing it all rather expertly. _Perhaps this chef thing isn't much of a stretch for him_, she thought. She hung her apron on a wooden peg and gave Red and affirming glance before heading out the back door and into the night.

After leaving, her protocol was to head to a local coffee shop, order an Americano, sit and wait for Dembe to determine she was not followed. Close to fifteen minutes later, he entered the coffee shop and walked past her to the kitchen and out through the back. After a moment, she cleared her dish, went to the restroom to wash her hands and then followed him out through the same door where he was waiting in the alley with an SUV. She hopped in and Dembe made quick work of getting them out of Brooklyn and back into the city. Neither said much until they were pulling into the parking structure of Red's building.

"You did well, Elizabeth," Dembe finally offered, his quiet presence and reassuring words always a place of comfort for her.

"I really didn't do anything. I hope the recording offers something useful in determining why he's here."

"Raymond will translate when he joins you later this evening," he informed her. "Again, he thought it better that you two not be seen leaving the restaurant or traveling back to his home together. Just precautions. Nothing to be concerned with."

It was always easier said than done.

She excused herself to Red's bathroom when they arrived, taking a moment to collect herself. Her hands gripped the edge of the cold marble, leaning over the vanity and taking a few deep breaths. She pulled the wig down and all the hair pins holding her hair before changing from her skirt and blouse into soft leggings and a gauzy tunic top. She tucked herself into the corner of Red's sofa and tried to relax in the quiet while she waited for him to come home.

She stared out the window as the events of the night replayed through her mind, unaware of how much she had sunk deep into the quiet of the house until she heard the lock turn in the door. After hanging his hat and jacket, he came around to where she was sitting and placed the silver metal briefcase he was carrying on the coffee table in front of her. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head and she reached out and squeezed his hand. He took the seat next to her, laying his arm across the back of the sofa and she immediately curled into the comfort of his arms, burying her nose in the warmth of his neck.

"I'm proud of what you did tonight," he finally said after a few moments of sweet silence.

She smiled up at him. "How soon until we can figure out what they were saying?"

"We can find out right now," he answered, extricating himself from her enough to lean over release the locks on the briefcase. He lifted the lid carefully to reveal a complicated collection of buttons and lights with two magnetic tape spools. He flipped a black switch; a motor hummed from the inside while green and red lights blinked. The spools turned and came to life, whirring as the voices on the tape slowly became audible. The entire scene began to replay in her mind: first the grey-haired, unkempt man and then the clean-cut, white haired man entering the restaurant, the tiny brass bell ringing in the background. As the tape neared the point when she stood closer to their table, the voices became clearer, though not easier for her to understand.

"What are they saying?" she asked, seeing an expression of concentration, concern even, on Red's face.

He listened intently, then rolled the tape back a few seconds before playing it again.

"There's that word again," she said. "They kept talking about 'masha.' Whatever it is, it seems important to them."

His face was ashen now and in feeling her worried look, he rose suddenly and paced over to the window. The voices continued to argue on the tape while the fury of language and confusion clouded her mind until she switched off the tape.

"Red? What's wrong? And what is this 'masha' they are so concerned with?"

Finally, he turned to face her, taking in the lovely curve of her face and the light set ablaze in her eyes. So often, she looked on him with such adoration, the bloom of something he - something _they_ \- were tending and growing with such care. This look, this _fire_ he now saw was something new.

He could only hope now that she was as resilient as he thought her to be.

"Lizzie. Masha…is you."

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so I know I said I was diverting from canon, but Masha is really the only Russian name I can see fitting with Lizzie at this point. Hope it works! As always, these characters are not mine. Thanks for reading and reviewing!_


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